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/ 


ED ASTRAY; 

OB, 

/r^ 

"LA PETITE COMTESSE." 


The Sphinx; 

OB, 

''JULIA DE TRECCEUR/’ 


Bella h.” 


By OCTAYE FEUILLET, 

Author of “Tub Romance op a Poor Youno JJAn.” 


from laltst dtbHiujts, 


By O. YIBEUR. 



NEW YOEK: 

G. ET, Carleton Co,y Publishers, 


PARIS: MICHEL LEVY ERBRBS. 
M.DCCC.LXXV. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 
G. W. CARLETON & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



John F. Trow & Son, Printers, 
205-313 East i2Th St., New York.’ 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface 7 

I. 

Led Astray 9 

II. 

The Sphinx 109 

III. 


Bellah 


205 



THE TRANSLATOR TO THE READER. 


The three stories included in this volume comprise all of 
Octave Feuillet’s writings (other than dramatic) which have 
not heretofore appeared in English. They each form in the 
original a distinct and separate work, printed and sold as such, 
and, in fact, published at different times ; they are now offered 
to the American public all three in one volume, thus giving 
for one price what the French reader has to pay three prices 
for. 

In chronological order, “ Bellah ” appeared first. It is a 
charming story, which, for refined tone, elegant design, and 
pure, delicate sentiment, recalls the best features of that most 
successful of this author’s works, the Romance of a Poor 
Young Man.” 

Of the other two stories, the titles at least are already famil- 
iar to American readers and theatre-goers. They are both, 
though widely different from each other, keen psychological 
studies of female character, Julia de Trecoeur particularly hav- 
ing been pronounced by the ‘‘Revue des Deux-Mondes” 


viii PREFACE. 

(April, 1874), than which perhaps no higher critical author- 
ity exists, one of the subtlest and most delicate characteriza- 
tions ever produced in a work of fiction. 

O. YIBEUR. 


New York, January, 1875. 


LED ASTRAY; 

OR, 

“LA PETITE COMTESSE.” 


I. 

George L to Paul B., Paris. 

Rozel, 15th September. 

It’s nine o’clock in the evening, my dear friend, 
and yon have just arrived from Germany. They hand 
you my letter, the post-mark of which informs you at 
once that I am absent from Paris. You indulge in a 
gesture of annoyance, and call me a vagabond. Never- 
theless, you settle down in yoiir best arm-chair, you 
open my letter, and you hear that I have been for the 
past five days domesticated in a fiour-mill in Lower 
Normandy. In a flour-mill ! What the deuce can he be 
doing in a mill ? A wrinkle appears on your forehead, 
your eyebrows are drawn together ; you lay down my 
letter for a moment ; you attempt to penetrate this mystery 
by the unaided power of your imagination. Suddenly 
a playful expression beams upon your countenance ; 

1 * 


10 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


your mouth expresses the irony of a wise man tempered 
hy the indulgence of a friend ; you have caught a 
glimpse, through an opera-comique cloud, of a pretty 
miller’s wife with powdered hair, a waist all trimmed 
with gay ribbons, a light and short shirt, and stockings 
with gilded clocks; in short, one of those fair young 
miller’s wives whose heart goes pit-a-pat with hautbo}" ac- 
companiment. But the Graces who are ever sporting in 
your mind sometimes lead it astray : my fair miller is as 
much like the creature of your imagination as I am like a 
youthful Colin ; her head is adorned with a towering 
cotton nightcap to which the thickest possible coating of 
flour fails to restore its primitive color ; she wears a coarse 
woollen petticoat which would abrade the hide of an ele- 
phant ; in short, it frequently happens to me to confound 
the miller’s wife with the miller himself, after which it 
is sufiicient to add that I am not the least curious to know 
whether or not her heart goes pit-a-pat. The truth is, 
that, not knowing how to kill time in your absence, and 
having no reason, to expect you to return before another 
month (it’s your own fault!), I solicited a mission. The 

Council-General of the Department of had lately, and 

quite opportunely, expressed officially the wish that a certain 
ruined abbey, called Rozel Abbey, should be classed among 
historical monuments. I have been commissioned to inves- 
tigate closely the candidate’s titles. I hastened with all 
possible speed to the chief town of this artistic depart- 
ment, where I effected my entrance with the important 
gravity of a man who holds within his hands the life or 
the death of a monument dear to the country. I made some 
inquiries at the hotel ; great was my mortification when 
I discovered that no one seemed to suspect that such a 


PETITE C0MTE88E. 


11 


tiling as Rozel Abbey existed within a circuit of a hun- 
dred leagues. I called at t\\Q j^rcfecture while still labor- 
ing under the effect of this disappointment : the jprefet^ 
Yalton, whom you know very well, received me with 
his usual affability ; but to the questions I addressed him 
on the subject of the condition of the ruins which the 
council seemed so desirous of preserving for the admira- 
tion of its constituents, he replied, with an absent smile, 
that his wife, who had visited these ruins on the occasion 
of an excursion into the country, while she was sojourn- 
ing on the sea-shore, could tell me a great deal more 
about the ruins than he possibly could himself. 

He invited me to dinner, and in the evening, Madame 
Yalton, after the usual struggles of expiring modesty, 
showed me, in her album, some views of the famous ruins 
sketched with considerable taste. She became mildly 
excited while speaking to me of these venerable remains, 
situated, if she is to be believed, in the midst of an en- 
chanting site, and, above all, particularly well suited for 
picnics and country excursions. A beseeching and cor- 
rupting look terminated her harangue. It seems evident 
to me that this worthy lady is the only person in the de- 
partment who takes any real interest in that poor old 
Abbey, and that the conscript fathers of the general coun- 
cil have passed their resolution authorizing an investiga- 
tion out of pure gallantry. It is impossible for me, how- 
ever, not to concur in their opinion : the Abbey has 
beautiful eyes ; she deserves to be classed, — she shall be 
classed. 

My decision was therefore settled, from that moment, 
but it was still necessary to write it down and back it 
with some documentary evidence. Unfortunately, the 


12 


LED A8TBAT; OB, 


local archives and libraries do not abound in traditions 
relative to my subject ; after two days of conscientious 
rummaging, I had collected but a few rare and insignifi- 
cant documents, which may be summed up in these two 
lines : Hozel Abbey, in Hozel township, was inhabited 
from time immemorial by monks, who left it when it 
fell in ruins.” 

That is why I resolved to go, without further delay, 
and ask their secret of these mysterious ruins, and to mul- 
tiply, if need be, the artifices of my pencil, to make up 
for the compulsory concision of my pen. I left on Wed- 
nesday morning for the town of Yitry, which is only two or 
three leagues distant from the Abbey. A Norman coach, 
complicated with a Norman coachman, jogged me about 
all day, like an indolent monarch, along the Norman 
hedges. When night came, I had travelled twelve miles 
and my coachman had taken twelve meals. The country 
is fine, though of a character somewhat uniformly rustic. 
Under everlasting groves is displayed an opulent and 
monotonous verdure, in the thickness of which contented- 
looking oxen ruminate. I can understand my coachmaii‘’s 
twelve meals : the idea of eating must occur frecpiently 
and almost exclusively to the imagination of any man 
who spends his life in the midst of this rich nature, the 
very grass of which gives an appetite. 

Towards evening, however, the aspect of the landscape 
changed : we entered a rolling prairie, quite low, marshy, 
bare as a Kussian stejpjpe, and extending on both sides of the 
road ; the sound of the wheels on the causeway assumed 
a hollow and vibrating sonority ; dark-colored reeds and 
tall, unhealthy-looking grass covered, as far as the eye 
could reach, the blackish surface of the marsh. I noticed 


PETITE G0MTE8SE: 


13 


in the distance, through the deepening twilight, and behind 
a cloud of rain, two or three horsemen running at full 
speed, and as if demented, through these boundless spaces ; 
they disappeared at intervals in the depressions of the 
meadows, and suddenly came to sight again, still gallop- 
ing witli the same frenzy. I could not imagine towards 
what imaginary goal these equestrian phantoms were thus 
madly rushing. I took good care not to inquire : mys- 
tery is a sweet and sacred thing. 

The next morning, I started for the Abbey, taking with 
me in my cabriolet a tall young peasant who had yellow 
hair, like Ceres. He was a farm-boy who had lived 
since his birth within a rod of ray monument ; he had 
heard me in the morning asking for information in the 
court-yard of the inn, and had obligingly volunteered to 
show me the way to the ruins, which were the first thing 
he had seen on coming into the world. 1 had no need 
whatever of a guide : I accepted, nevertheless, the fellow’s 
offer, his officious chattering seeming to promise a well- 
sustained convei*sation, in the course of which I hoped to 
detect some interesting legend ; but as soon as he had 
taken his seat by my side, the rascal became dumb ; my 
questions seemed even, I know not why, to inspire him 
with a deep mistrust, almost akin to anger. Iliad to deal 
with the Genius of the ruins, the faithful guardian of their 
treasures. On the other hand, I had the gratification of 
taking him home in my carriage ; it was apparently all 
he wished, and he had every reason to be satisfied with 
my accommodating spirit. 

After landing this agreeable companion at his ow 
door, it became necessary for me to alight also ; a rod., 
path, or rather a rude flight of stone steps, winding down 


14 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


the side of a steep declivity, led me to the bottom of a 
narrow valley which spreads and stretches between a 
double chain of high wooded hills. A small river flows 
lazily through it under the shade of alder-bushes, dividing 
two strips of meadows as fine and velvety as the lawns 
of a park ; it is crossed over an old bridge with a single 
arch, which reflects in the placid water the outlines of its 
graceful ogive. On the right, the hills stand close to- 
gether in the form of a circus, and seemed to join tlieir 
verdure-clad curves; on tlie left, they spread out until 
they become merged in tlie deep and sombre masses of a 
vast forest. The valley is thus closed on all sides, and 
offers a picture of which the calm, the freshness, and tjie 
isolation penetrate the soul. 

The ruins of the Abbey stand with tbeir back against 
the forest. What remains of the Abbey proper is not a 
great deal. At the entrance of the court-yaifl, a monu- 
mental gateway ; a wing of the building, dating from the 
twelfth century, in which dwell the family of the miller 
of whom I .am the guest; the chapter-hall, remarkable for 
some elegant arches and a few remnants of mural paint- 
ing ; finally, two or three cells, one of which seems to have 
been used for purposes of correction, if I may judge from 
the solidity of the door and the strength of the bolts. The 
rest has been torn down, and may be found in fragments 
among the cottages of the neighborhood. The church, 
which has almost the proportions of a cathedral, is finely 
preserved, and produces a marvellous effect. The portal 
and the apsis have alone disappeared ; the whole interior 
architecture, the covings, the tall columns, are intact and 
as if built yesterday. There, it seems that an artist must 
have presided over the work of destruction : a masterly 


PETITE COMTESSE. 


16 


stroke of the pick-axe has opened at the two extremities 
of the church, where stood the portal and where stood the 
altar, two gigantic bays, so that, from the threshold of the 
edifice, the eye plunges into the forest beyond as through 
a deep triumphal arch. In this solitary spot the effect is 
unexpected and solemn. I was delighted with it. “Mon- 
sieur,” I said to the miller, w'ho, since my arrival, had been 
watching my every step from a distance with that fierce 
mistrust which is a peculiarity of this part of the country, 
“ I have been requested to examine and to sketch these 
ruins. That work will require several days ; could you 
not spare me a daily trip from the town to the Abbey 
and back, by fiirnisliing me with such accommodations as 
you can, for a week or two ? ” 

The miller, a thorough Norman, examined me from 
head to foot without answ^ering, like a man who knows 
that silence is of gold : lie measured me, he ganged me, 
lie weighed me, and finally, opening his fiour-coated lips, 
he called his wife. The latter appeared at once \qx)n the 
threshold of the Chapter-hall, converted into a cow-pen, 
and I had to repeat my request to her. She examined 
me in her turn, but not at such great length as her hus- 
band, and, with the superior scent of lier sex, her con- 
clusion was, as I had the right to expect, that of the 
prcBses in the Malade Imaginaire : “ Dignus es intrarer 
The miller, who saw what turn tilings were taking, lifted 
his cap and treated me to a smile. I must add that these 
excellent people, once the ice broken, tried in every way 
to compensate me, by a thousand eager attentions, for the 
excessive caution of their reception. They wished to 
give up to me their own room, adorned with the Admrb- 
tures of Telemaclius^ but I preferred— as Mentor would 


16 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


have done — a cell of austere nudity, of which the win- 
dow, with small, lozenge-shaped panes, opens on the 
mined portal of the church and the horizon of the forest. 

Had I been a few years younger, I ^vould have en- 
joyed keenly this poetic installation ; but I am turning 
gray, friend Paul, or at least I fear so, though I am try- 
iiiir still to attribute to a mere effect of light the doubt- 
fill shades that dot my beard under the rays of the noon- 
day sun. nevertheless, if my reverie has changed its 
object, it still lasts, and still has its charms for me. My 
poetic feeling has become modified and, I think, more 
elevated. The image of a woman is no longer the indis- 
pensable element of my dreams ; my heart, peaceful now, 
and striving to become still more so, is gradually with- 
drawing from the field of my mind’s labors. I cannot, I 
confess, find enough pleasure in the pure and dry medi- 
tations of the intellect ; my imagination must speak first 
and set in}' brain in motion, for I was born romantic, and 
romantic I shall die ; and all that can be asked of me, all 
I can obtain of myself, at an age when propriety already 
commands gravity, is to build romances without love. 

Up to this time, ennui has spared me in my solitude. 
Shall I confess to you that I even experience in it a sin- 
gular feeling of contentment? It seems as though I 
were a thousand leagues away from the things of the 
world, and that there is a sort of truce and respite in the 
miserable routine of my existence, at once so agitated and 
so commonplace. I relish my complete independence 
with the naive joy of a twelve-year-old Pobiiison Crusoe. 
I sketch when I feel like it ; the rest of the time, I walk 
here and there at random, being careful only never to go 
beyond the bounds of the sacred valley. I sit down 


PETITE C0MTE8SE. 


17 


upon the parapet of the bridge, and I watch the running 
water ; I go on voyages of discovery among the ruins ; I 
dive into the underground vaults ; I scale the shattered 
steps of the belfry, and being unable to come down again 
the same way, I remain astride a gargoyle, cutting a 
rather sorry figure, until the miller brings me a ladder. 
I wander at night through the forest, and I see deer 
running by in the moonlight. All these things have a 
soothing effect on my mind, and produce the effect of a 
child’s dream in middle age. 

Your letter dated from Cologne, and which was for- 
warded to me here according to my instructions, has 
alone disturbed my beatitude. I console myself with 
some difficulty for having left Paris almost on the eve of 
your return. May Heaven confound your whims and 
your want of decision ! All I can do now, is to hurry 
my work; but where shall I find the historical documents 
I still need ? I am seriously anxious to save these ruins. 
There is here a rare landscape, a valuable picture, which 
it would be sheer vandalism to allow to perish. 

And then, I admire the old monks ! I wisli to offer 
up to their departed shades this liomage of my sympathy. 
Yes, had I lived some thousand years ago, I would cer- 
tainly have sought among them the repose of the cloister 
while waiting for the peace of heaven. What existence 
could have suited me better? Free from the cares of 
this world, and assured of the other, free from any agita- 
tions of the heart or the mind, I would have placidly 
written simple legends which I would have been credu- 
lous enough to believe ; I would have unravelled with in- 
tense curiosity some unknown manuscripts, and discov- 
ered with tears of joy the Iliad or the Hineid ; I would 


18 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


have sketched imaginary cathedrals ; I would have heated 
alembics, — and perhaps have invented gunpowder : which 
is by no means the best thing I might have done. 

Come ! his midnight ; brother, we must sleep ! 

Postscri^tum , — There are ghosts ! I was closing this 
letter, my dear friend, in the midst of a solemn silence, 
when suddenly my ears were filled with mysterious and 
confused sounds that seemed to come from the outside, 
and among which I thought I could distinguish the buzz- 
ing murmur of a large crowd. I approached, quite sur- 
prised, the window of my cell, and I could not exactly 
tell you the nature of the emotion I felt on discovering 
the ruins of the church illuminated with a resplendent 
blaze ; the vast portal and the yawning ogives cast fioods 
of light as, far as the distant woods. It was not, it could 
not be, an accidental conflagi-ation. Besides, I could see, 
though the stone trefoils, shadows of superhuman size 
fiitting through the nave, apparently performing, with a 
sort of rhythm, some mysterious ceremony. I threw my 
window abruptly open ; at the same instant, a loud blast 
broke forth in the ruins, and rang again through all the 
echoes of the valley ; after which, I saw issuing from the 
church a double file of horsemen bearing torches and 
blowing horns, some dressed in red, others draped in 
black, with plumes waving over their heads. This strange 
procession followed, still in the same order, amid the 
same dazzling light and the same clangor of trumpets, 
the shaded path that skirts the edge of the meadows. 
Plaving reached the little bridge, it stopped ; I saw the 
torches rise, wave, and cast showers of sparks; the horns 
sounded a weird and prolonged blast; then suddenly 
every light disappeared, every noise ceased, and the valley 


“ LA PETITE G0MTES8ET 


19 


was again wrapped in the darkness and the deep silence 
of the night. That is what I saw and heard. You wlio 
have just arrived from Germany, did you meet the Black 
Huntsman ? Ho ? Hang yourself, then ! 


II. 

16th Septembeb. 

The forest which once formed part of the demesnes of 
the Abbey, now belongs to a wealthy landed proprietor of 
the district, the Marquis de Malouet, a lineal descendant 
of Himrod, whose chateau seems to be the social centre 
of the district. There are almost daily at this season 
grand hunts in the forest : yesterday^ the party ended 
with a supper on the grass, and afterwards a ride home 
by torch-light. I felt very much disposed to strangle the 
honest miller, who gave me this morning, in vulgar lan- 
guage, this explanation of my midnight ballad. 

There is the world, then, invading with all its pomp my 
beloved solitude. I curse it, Paul, with all the bitterness 
of my heart. I became indebted to it, last night, it is 
true, for a fantastic apparition that both charmed and de- 
lighted me ; but I am also indebted to it to-day for a 
ridiculous adventure which I am the only one not to 
laugh at, for I was its unlucky hero. 

I was but little disposed to wmrk this morning ; I went 
on sketching, however, until noon, but had to give it up 
then : my head was heavy, I felt dull and disagreeable, I 
had a vague presentiment of something fatal in the air. 


20 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


I returned for a moment to the mill to get rid of my 
ti’aps ; I quarrelled, to her surprise and grief, with the 
millei'^s wife, on the subjec^t of I know not what cruelly 
indigenous mess she had served me for breakfast ; I 
scolded the good woman’s two children because they were 
touching my pencils ; finally, I administered a vigorous 
kick to the house-dog, accompanied with the celebrated 
formula : “ Judge whether you had done anything to 
me ! ” 

Eather dissatisfied with myself, as you may imagine, 
after these three mean little tricks, I directed my steps 
towards the forest, in order to hide as much as possible 
from the light of day. I walked about for nearly an 
hour without being able to shake off the prophetic mel- 
ancholy that oppressed me. Perceiving at last, on the 
edge of one of the avenues that traverse the forest, and 
under the dense shade of some beech-trees, a thick bed of 
moss, I stretched myself upon it, together -with my re- 
morse, and it was not long before I fell into a sound 
sleep. Mon Dieu ! why was it not the sleep of death ? 

I have no idea how long I had been asleep, when I 
was suddenly awakened by a certain concussion of the 
soil in my immediate vicinity; I jumped abruptly to my 
feet, and I saw, within five steps of me, on the road, a 
young lady on horseback. My unexpected apparition 
had somewhat frightened the horse, who had shied with 
some violence. The fair equestrian, who had not yet 
noticed me, was talking to him and trying to quiet him. 
She appeared to me pretty, slender, elegant. I caught a 
rapid glimpse of blonde hair, eyebrows of a darker shade, 
keen eyes, a bold expression of countenance, and a felt 
hat with blue feathers, set over one ear in rather too 


PETITE C0MTE88E, 


21 


rakish a style. For the better understanding of what is 
about to follow, you should know that I was attFed in a 
tourist’s blouse stained with red ochre ; besides, I must 
have had that haggard look and startled expression which 
impart to one rudely snatched from sleep a countenance 
at once comical and alarming. Add to all this, my hair 
in utter disorder, my beard strewn with dead leaves, and 
you will have no difhculty in understanding the terror 
that suddenly overpowered the young huntress at the 
first glance she cast upon me ; she uttered a feeble cry, 
and wheeling her horse around, she fied at full gallop. 

It was impossible for me to mistake the nature of the 
impression I had just produced ; there was nothing flat- 
tering about it. However, I am thirty-five years of age, 
and the more or less kindly glance of a woman is no 
longer sufficient to disturb the serenity of my soul. I 
followed with a smiling look the flying Amazon. At the 
extremity of the avenue in which I had just failed to 
make her conquest, she turned abruptly to the left, to go 
and take a parallel road. I only had to cross the adjoin- 
ing thicket to see her overtake a cavalcade composed of 
ten or twelve persons, who seemed to be waiting for her, 
and to whom she shouted from a distance, in a broken 
voice : 

“ Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! a wild man ! there is a 
wild man in the forest ! ” 

My interest being highly excited by this beginning, I 
settle myself comfortably behind a thick bush, with eye 
and ear equally attentive. They crowd around the lady ; 
it is supposed at first that she is jesting, but her emotion 
is too serious to have been causeless. She saw, distinctly 
saw, not exactly a savage, perhaps, but a man in rags, 


22 


LED ASTRAY ; OR, 


whose tattered blouse seemed covered with blood, whose 
face, hands, and whole person were repulsively hlthy, 
whose beard was frightful, and eyes half projecting from 
their sockets; in short, an individual, by the side of 
whom the most atrocious of Salvator Rosa’s brigands 
would be as one of Watteau’s shepherds. Never did a 
man’s vanity enjoy such a treat. This charming person 
added that I had threatened her, and that I had jumped 
at her horse’s bridle like the spectre of the forest of 
Mans.* 

The response to this marvellous story is a general and 
enthusiastic shout : 

Let us chase him ! let us surround him ! let us track 
him ! hip, hip, hurrah ! ” — whereupon the whole cavalry 
force starts oil at a gallop in the direction of the amiable 
story-teller. 

I had, to all appearances, but to remain quietly en- 
sconced in my hiding-place in order to completely foil 
the hunters who were going in search of me in the avenue 
where I had met the beautiful Amazon. Unfortunately, 
I had the unlucky idea, for greater safety, of making my 
way into the opposite thicket. As I was cautiously cross- 
ing the open space, a wild shout of joy informs me that 
I have been discovered ; at the same time, I see the 
whole squadron wheeling about and coming down upon 
me like a torrent. There remained but one reasonable 
course for me to pursue : it was to stop, to affect the sur- 
prise of a quiet stroller disturbed in his walk, and to 
disconcert my assailants by an attitude at once simple 

* Charles VI., King of France, became demented in consequence of 
his horse being stopped, during a hunt in the forest of Mans, by what 
seemed to him a supernatural being. — (Trans.) 


PETITE COMTESSE: 


23 


and dignified ; bnt, seized with a foolish shame which it 
is easier to conceive than to explain, — convinced, more- 
over, that a vigorous effort would be sufficient to rid me 
of this importunate pursuit and to spare me the annoy- 
ance of an explanation, — I commit the error — the ever 
deplorable error — of hurrying on faster, or rather, to be 
frank with you, of running away as fast as my legs would 
carry me. I cross the road like a hare, I penetrate into 
the thicket, greeted on m}^ passage with a volley of joyous 
clamors. From that moment my fate was sealed ; all 
honorable explanation became impossible for me ; I had 
ostensibly accepted the struggle with its most extreme 
chances. 

However, I still possessed a certain presence of mind, 
and while tearing furiously through the brambles, I 
soothed myself with comforting refiections. Once sepa- 
rated from my persecutors by the whole depth of a 
thicket inaccessible to cavalry, it would be an easy mat- 
ter to gain a sufficient advance upon them to be able to 
lau^rh at their fruitless search. This last illusion vanished 

O 

when, on reaching the limit of the covered space, I dis- 
covered that the cursed troop had divided into two squads, 
who were both waiting for me at the outlet. At the 
sight of me, a fresh storm of shout and laughter broke 
forth, and the hunting-horns sounded in all directions. 
I became dizzy ; I felt the forest whirling around me ; 
I rushed into the first path that offered itself to me, and 
my flight assumed the character of a hopeless rout. 

The implacable legion of hunters and huntresses did 
not fail to start on my heels with renewed ardor and 
stupid mirth. I still recognized at their head tlie lady 
with the waving blue plume, who distinguished herself 


24 


LED ASTRAY ; OR, 


by her peculiar animosity, and upon whom I invoked 
with all my heart the most serious accidents to which 
equestrianism may be subject. It was she who encour- 
aged her odious accomplices, when I had succeeded for a 
moment in eluding the pursuit ; she discovered me with 
infernal keen-sightedness, pointed me out with the tip of 
her whip, and broke into a barbarous laugh whenever she 
saw me resume my race through the bushes, blowing, 
panting, desperate, absurd. I ran thus during a space of 
time of which I am unable to form any estimate, accom- 
plishing unprecedented feats of gymnastics, tearing 
through the thorny brambles, sinking into the miry spots, 
leaping over the ditches, bounding upon my feet with 
the elasticity of a panther, galloping to the devil, without 
reason, without object, and without any other hope but 
that of seeing the earth open beneath my feet. 

At last, and surely by chance, — for I had long since lost 
all topographical notions, — I discovered the ruins just 
ahead of me ; with a last effort, I cleared the open space ^ 
that separates them from the forest, I ran through the 
church as if I had been excommunicated, and I arrived 
panting before the door of the mill. The miller and his 
wife were standing on the threshold, attracted, doubtless, 
by the noise of the cavalcade that was following close on 
my heels; they looked at me with an expression of 
stupor ; I tried in vain to find a few words of explana- 
tion to cast to them as I ran by, and after incredible 
efforts of intelligence, I was only able to murmqr in a 
silly tone : “ If any one asks for me, say I am not in ! ” 
Then I cleared in three jumps the stairs leading to my 
cell, and I sank upon my bed in a state of complete 
, prostration. 


PETITE COMTESSET 


25 


In the meantime, Paul, the hunting-party were crowd- 
ing tnmiiltnoiisly into the. conrt-yard of the Abbey; I 
could liear the stamping of the horses’ feet, the voices of 
the riders, and even the sound of their boots on the flag- 
ging, which proved that some of them had alighted and 
were threatening me with a last assault. I started up 
with a gesture of rage, and I glanced at my pistols. For- 
tunately, after a few minutes’ conversation with the 
miller, the liunters withdrew, not without giving me to 
understand that, if they had formed a better opinion of 
my character, they went away with a most amusing idea 
of the eccentricity of my disposition. 

Such is, my dear friend, a faithful historical account 
of that unlucky day, during which I covered myself 
frankly, and from head to foot, witli a species of illustra- 
tion to which any Frenchman would prefer that of crime. 
I have, at this moment, the satisfaction of knowing that 
I am in a neighboring chateau, in the midst of a gather- 
ing of brilliant men and lovely young women, an inex- 
haustible subject for jokes. I feel, moreover, since ray 
flank movement (as it is customary in war to call precipi- 
tate retreats), that I have lost something of my dignity to 
my own eyes, and I cannot conceal to myself, besides, 
that I am far from enjoying the same consideration on 
the part of my rustic hosts. 

, In presence of a situation so seriously compromised, 
it became necessary to hold council : after a brief de- 
liberation, I rejected far, far from me, as puerile and 
pusillanimous, the project suggested to me by my vanity 
at bay, that of giving up my lodgings, and even of leav- 
ing the district entirely. I made up my mind to pursue 
philosophically the course of my labors and my pleasures, 
2 


26 


LED ASTBA7; OR, 


to show a soul superior to circumstances, and in short, to' 
give to the Amazons, the centaurs, and the millers the 
fine spectacle of the wise man in adversity. 


III. 


Malouet, 20th September. 

I HAVE just received your letter. You belong to the 
true breed of Monomotapa friends, Paul. Put wliat 
puerility ! And such is the cause of your sudden return ! 
A trifle, a silly nightmare which for two successive nights 
caused you to hear the sound of my voice calling on you 
for help ! Ah ! bitter fruits of the wretched German 
cuisine ! Peally, Paul, you are foolish ! And ^^et, you 
tell me tilings that move me to tears. I cannot answer 
you as I would like to. My heart is tender, but my 
speech is dry. I liave never been able to tell any one, 
“ I love you ! ” Tliere is a jealous fiend who alters on 
my lips every word of affection, and imparts -to it a tone 
of irony. Put, thank God, you know me ! 

It seems that I make you laugh while you make me 
weep ? Well, I am glad of it. Yes, my noble adventure 
in the forest has had a sequel, and a sequel with which I 
might very well have dispensed. All the misfortunes 
which you felt were threatening me have actually hap- 
pened to me ; rest easy, therefore. 

The day following this fatal day, I began by reconquer- 
ing the esteem of my hosts at the mill, by relating to them 


PETITE C0MTE88E: 


27 


good-naturedly the most piquant episodes of my famous 
race. I saw them beaming as they heard the narrative ; 
the woman in particular was writhing in atrocious con- 
vulsions, and with formidable stretches of her jaws. I 
have never seen anything so hideous, in all my life, as 
this coarse, cowherd’s joy ! 

As a testimonial of the complete restoration of his 
sympathy, the miller asked me if I was fond of hunting, 
took down from a hook over his mantel-piece a long, rusty 
tube, that made me think of Leather Stocking’s rifle, and 
laid it into my hands, while boasting of the murderous 
qualities of that instrument. I acknowledged his kindness 
with an outward appearance of lively satisfaction, never 
having had the heart to undeceive people who think they 
are doing something to please me, and I started for the 
woods that cover the hill-sides, carrying like a, lance that 
venerable weapon, which seemed indeed to •me of the 
most dangrerous kind. I went to take a seat on the 
heather, and I carefully laid down the long gun by me ; 
then I amused myself driving away, by throwing stones at 
them, the young rabbits that ventured imprudently in the 
vicinity of an engine of war for the effects of which I 
could not- be responsible. Thanks to these precautions, 
for over an hour that this hunt lasted, no accident hap- 
pened either to the game or to myself. 

To speak candidly, I was rather glad to allow the hour 
to pass when the hunting-party from the chateau are in 
the habit of taking the field, not caring very much, 
through a remnant of vain glory, to find myself on their 
passage that day. Towards two o’clock in the afternoon, 
1 left my seat of mint and wild thyme, satisfied that I 
had, henceforth, no unpleasant encounter to apprehend. 


28 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


I handed the blunderbuss to the miller, who seemed some- 
what surprised to see me empty-handed, and more so, prob- 
ably, to see me alive still. I went to take a stand opposite 
the portal, and I undertook to finish a general view of the 
ruin, a magnificent water-color, which is certainly to se- 
cure the approbation of the minister. 

I was deeply absorbed in my work, when I suddenly 
fancied I could hear more distinctly than usual that 
sound of running horses which, since my misadventure, 
was forever haunting my ears. I turned around sharply, 
and I discovered the enemy within two hundred paces of 
me. This time, he was attired in plain clothes, being 
apparently equipped for an ordinary ride ; he had ob- 
tained, since the previous day, several recruits of both 
sexes, an^ now really formed an imposing body. Though 
long prepared for such an occurrence, I could not help a 
certain disor)mfort, and I secretly cursed those indefatiga- 
ble idlers. J^evertheless, the thought of retreating never 
occurred to me ; I had lost all taste for flight for the rest 
of my days. 

As the cavalcade drew nearer, I could hear smothered 
laughter and whisperings, the subject of which was but 
too evident to me. I must confess that a spark of anger 
was beginning to burn my in heart, and wdiile going on 
with my w^ork with an aj^pearance of unabated interest, 
and indulging in admiring motions of the head before my 
water-color, I was lending to the scene going on behind 
me a sombre and vigilant attention. However, the first 
intention of the party seemed to be to spare my misfor- 
tune : instead of following the path by the side of which 
I was established, and which was the shoa’test way to the 
ruins, they turned aside towards the right, and filed by in 


“ LA PETITE COMTESSE: 


29 


silence. One alone among them, falling ont of the main 
group, came rapidly in my direction, and stopped within 
ten steps of my studio ; though my face was bent over 
my drawing, I felt, by that strange intuition which every 
one knows, a human look fixed upon me. I raised my 
eyes with an air of indifference, dropping them again al- 
most imiliediately : that rapid gesture had been sufficient 
to enable me to recognize in that indiscreet observer the 
young lady with the blue feathers, the original cause of 
all my mishaps. She was there, boldly seated on her 
horse, her chin raised, her eyes half closed, examining me 
from head to foot with admirable insolence. I had 
thought it best at first, out of respect for her sex, to 
abandon myself without resistance to her impertinent 
curiosity ; but after a few seconds, as she manifested no 
intention of putting an end to- her proceedings, I lost 
patience, and raising my head more openly, I fixed my 
eyes upon her witli polite gravity, but persisting steadi- 
ness. She blushed; seeing which, I bowed. She re- 
turned me a slight inclination of the head, and mo^dng 
off at a canter, she disappeared under the vault of the old 
church. I thus remained master of the field, keenly rel- 
ishing the triumph of fascination Iliad just obtained over 
that little person, whom there certainly was considerable 
merit in putting out of countenance.*^ 

The ride through the forest lasted some twenty min- 
utes, and I soon beheld the fantasia debouching 

pell-mell from the portal. I feigned again a profound 
abstraction ; but this time again, one of the riders left the 
company and advanced towards me : he was a man of 
tall stature, wdio wore a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to 
his chin, in military style. He was marching so straight 


30 


LED ASTRAY ; OR, 


upon my little establisliment, that I could not help sup- 
posing he intended passing right over it for the amuse- 
ment of the ladies. I was therefore watching him wdth 
a furtive but wide-awake glance, when I had the satis- 
faction of seeing him stop within three steps of my camp- 
stool, and removing his hat : 

Monsieur,” he said in a full and frank tone of voice, 
“ will you permit me to look at your drawing ? ” 

I returned his salutation, nodded in token of acquies- 
cence, and went on with my work. After a moment of 
silent contemplation, the unknown equestrian, apparently 
yielding to the violence of his impressions, allowed a few 
laudatory epithets to escape him ; then, resuming his di- 
rect allocution : 

“ Monsieur,” he said, allo^v me to return thanks to 
your talent ; we shall be indebted to it, I feel quite sure, 
for the preservation of these ruins, which are the orna- 
ment of our district.” 

I abandoned at once my reserve, which could no longer 
be anything but childish sulkiness, and I replied, as I 
thought I should, that he was appreciating with too much 
indulgence a mere amateur’s sketch ; that I certainly had 
the greatest desire of saving these beautiful ruins, but 
that the most important part of my work threatened to 
remain quite insigniiicant, for w’^ant of historical informa- 
tion wliich I had vainly tried to hnd in the archives of 
the county-seat. 

“Parbleu, Monsieur,” rejoined the horseman, ‘^you 
please me greatly. I have in my library a large propor- 
tion of the archives of the Abbey. Come and consult 
them at your leisure. I shall feel grateful to you for 
doing so.” 


PETITE C0MTE8BET 


31 


I thanked him with some embarrassment. — I regretted 
not to have known it sooner. I feared being recalled to 
Paris by a letter which I was expecting this very day. — 
Nevertheless, I had risen to make this answer, the ill 
grace of which I strove to attenuate by the courteousness 
of my attitude. At the same time, I formed a clearer 
idea of my interlocutor : he was a handsome old man, 
with broad shoulders, who seemed to carry with ease the 
weight of some sixty winters, and whose bright blue eyes 
expressed the kindliest good feeling. 

“ Come ! come ! ” he exclaimed, “ let us speak frankly. 
You feel some repugnance at mingling with that band of 
hare-brained scamps you see yonder, and whom I tried 
in vain yesterday to keep out of a silly affair, for which I 
now beg to tender you my sincere apologies. My name 
is the Marquis de Malouet, sir. After all, you went off 
wuth the honors of the day. They wished to see you ; you 
did not wish to be seen. You carried your point. What 
else can you ask \ ” 

I could not help laughing on hearing such a favorable 
interpretation of my unlucky scrape. 

‘‘You laugh!” rejoined the old marquis; “bravo! 
we’ll soon come to an understanding, then. Now, what’s 
to prevent your coming to spend a few days at my house % 
My wife has requested me to invite you ; she has heard 
in detail all your annoyances of yesterday. She has an 
angel’s disposition, my wife. ... She is no longer 
young, always ill ; a mere breath ; but she is an angel, 
. . . I’ll locate you in the library . . . you’ll live like a 
hermit, if you like. . . . Mon Dieu ! I see it all, I tell 
you : these madcaps of mine frighten you ; you are a se- 
rious man ; I know all about that sort of disposition ! 


32 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


Well! you’ll find congenial company . . . my wife is full 
of sense ; I am no fool myself. I am fond of exercise ; in 
fact, it is indispensable to my health, — but you must not 
take me for a brute 1 . . . The devil ! not at all 1 I’ll as- 
tonish you. . . . You must be fond of whist : we’ll have 
a game together ; you must like to live well, — delicately, 
I mean, as it is proper and suitable for a man of taste and 
intelligence.' AVell ! since you appreciate good living, I 
am your man ; I have an excellent cook ... I may even 
say that I have two for the present : one coming in and 
the other going out; it is a conjunction ; the result is, a 
contest of skill, an academic tourney, of which you will 
assist me in adjudging the prize ! . . . Come 1 ” he added', 
laughing ingenuously at his own chattering, “ it’s settled, 
isn’t it ? I’m going to carry you off.” 

Happy, P aul, thrice ..hapjjy is the man who can say 
INo! Alone, he is really master of his time, of his 
fortune, and of his honor. One should be able to say 
Ho ! even to a beggar, even to a woman, even to an amia- 
ble old man, under penalty of surrendering at hazard his 
charity, his dignity, and his independence. For want of a 
maifiy iY?, how much misery, how many downfalls, how 
many crimes since A.dam ! 

While I was considering in my own mind the invitation 
wdiich had just been extended to me, these thoughts 
crowded in my brain ; I recognized their profound wis- 
dom, and I said Yes! — Fatal word, through which I lost 
my paradise, exchanging a retreat wholly to my taste — 
peaceful, laborious, romantic, and free — for the stiffness 
of a residence where society displays all the fury of its 
insipid dissipations. 

I demanded the necessary time for effecting my re- 


PETITE C0MTE8SET 


33 


moval, and Monsieur de Malouet left me, after grasping 
my hand cordially, declaring that he was extremely pleased 
with me, and that he was going to stimulate his two cooks 
to give me a triumphant reception. I am going,” he 
said in conclusion, “ to announce to them an artist, a 
poet : that’ll work up their imagination.” 

Toward five o’clock, two valets from the chateau came 
to take charge of my light baggage, and to advise me that 
a carriage was waiting for me on top of the hills. I bade 
farewell to my cell ; I thanked my hosts ; and I kissed 
their little urcliins, all besmeared and ill-kempt as they 
were. These kind people seemed to see me going with 
regret. I felt, myself, an extraordinary and unaccounta- 
ble sadness. I know not what strange sentiment attached 
me to that valley, but I left it with an aching heart, as 
one leaves. his native country. 

More to-morrow, Paul, for I am exhausted. 


lY. 


2Gth September. 

The chateau of Malouet is a massive and rather vulgar 
construction, which dates some one hundred years back. 
Fine avenues, a court of honor of a handsome style, and 
an ancient park impart to it, however, an aspect truly 
seigne Uriah 

The old marquis came to receive me at the foot of the 
stoop, passed his arm under mine, and after leading me 
2 * 


34 : 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


through a long maze of corridors, introduced me into a 
vast drawing-room, where almost complete obscurity pre- 
vailed ; I could only vaguely distinguish, by the intermit- 
tent blaze of the hearth, some twenty persons of both 
sexes, scattered here and there in small groups. Thanks 
to this blessed twilight, I effected safely my entrance, 
which had at a distance offered itself to my imagination, 
under a solemn and somewhat alarming light. I had 
barely time to receive the compliment of welcome which 
Madame de Malouet addressed me in a feeble but pene- 
trating voice. She took my arm almost at once to pass 
into the dining-room, having resolved, it appears, to re- 
fuse no mark of consideration to a pedestrian of such sur- 
prising agility. 

Once at the table and in the bright light, I was not 
long in discovering that my feats of the previous day had 
by no means been forgotten, and that I was the centre of 
general attention ; but I stood bravely this cross-fire of 
curious and ironical glances, intrenched on the one hand 
behind a mountain of fiowers that ornamented the centre 
of the table, and on the other assisted in my defensive 
position by the ingenious kindness of my neighbor. 
Madame de Malouet is one of those rare old women whom 
superior strength of mind or great purity of soul has pre- 
served against despair at the fatal hour of the fortieth 
year, and who liave saved from the wreck of their youth 
a single waif, itself a supreme charm, grace. Small, frail, 
her face pale and withered from the effects of liabitual 
suffering, she justifies exactly her husband’s expression : 
“ She is a breath, a breath that exhales intelligence and 
good-nature ! ” Not a shadow of any pretension unbecom- 
ing her age, an exquisite care of her person without the 


“ZJ. PETITE G0MTE88E. 


35 


faintest trace of coquetry, a complete oblivion of her de- 
parted youth, a sort of bashfulness at being old, and a 
touching desire, not to please, but to be forgiven : such is 
my adorable marquise. She has travelled much, read 
much, and knows Paris well. I roamed with her through 
one of those rapid conversations in which two minds whirl 
and for the first time seek to become acquainted, rambling 
from one pole to the other, touching lightly upon all 
things, disputing gayly, and happy to agree. 

Monsieur do Malouet seized the opportunity of the re- 
moval of the colossal dish that separated us, to ascertain 
the condition of my relations with his wife. He seemed 
satisfied at our evident good intelligence, and raising his 
sonorous and cordial voice : 

“ Monsieur,” he said to me, “ I have spoken to you of 
my two rival cooks ; now is the time to justify the repu- 
tation of high discernment which I have attributed to you 
in the minds of these artists. . . . Alas ! I am about to 
lose the oldest, and without doubt the most skilful, of 
these masters — the illustrious Jean Eostain. It was he, 
sir, who, on his arrival from Paris, two years ago, made 
this remarkable speech to me : ‘A man of taste. Monsieur 
le Marquis, can no longer live in Paris ; they practise 
there now, a certain .... romantic style of cooking, 
whicli will lead us Heaven knows where ! ’ — In short, sir, 
Eostain is a classic : this singular man has an opinion of 
his own ! Well ! you have just tasted in succession two 
entremets dishes of whicli cream forms the essential foun- 
dation ; according to my idea, these dishes are both a suc- 
cess ; but Eostaiifis work has struck me as greatly siqie- 
rior. . . . Ah, ah! sir, I am curious to know if youcan- 
of your own^ accord and upon th§tt simple indication, as- 


36 


LED ASTEAT; OB, 


sign to each tree its fruit, and render unto Csesar what be- 
longs to Caesar. . . . Ah, ah, let us see if you can ! ” 

I cast a furtive glance at the remnants of the two dishes 
to which the marquis had just. called my attention, and I 
had no hesitation in designating as “ classic ” the one that 
was surmounted with a temple of Cupid, and a figure of 
that god in polychromatic pastry. 

‘‘ A hit ! ” exclaimed the marquis. Bravo ! Bostain 
shall hear of it, and his heart will rejoice. Ah ! mon- 
sieur, why has it not been my good fortune to receive you 
in my house a few days sooner ? I might perhaps liave 
kept Bostain, or, to speak more truly, Bostain might per- 
haps have kept me, for I cannot conceal the fact, gentle- 
men hunters, that you are not in the good graces of the 
old chef, and I am not far from attributing his departure, 
with whatever pretexts he may choose to color it, to the 
annoyance he feels at 3 ^our complete indifference. Think- 
ing it might be agreeable to him, I informed him, a few 
weeks ago, that our liunting-meetings were about to 
secure him a concourse of connoisseurs worthy of his 
talents.” 

“ Monsieur le Marquis will excuse me,” replied Bos- 
tain with a melancholy smile, if 1 do not share his illu- 
sions : in the first place, a hunter devours and does not 
eat ; he brings to the table the stomach of a man just 
saved from shipwreck, iratum ventrem, as Horace says, 
and swallows up without choice and without reflection, 
gulm ‘parens, the most serious productions of an artist ; 
in the second place, the violent exercise of the chase has 
developed in such guests an inordinate thirst, which they 
generally slake without moderation. How, Monsieur le 
Marquis is not ignorant of the opinion of the ancients on 


PETITE C0MTES8E: 


37 


the excessive use of wine during meals ; it blunts the taste, 
— exsurdant vina palatum ! Nevertheless, Monsieur le 
Marquis may rest assured that I shall labor to please his 
guests with my usual conscientiousness, though with the 
painful certainty of not being understood.” 

After uttering these words, E-ostain draped himself in 
his toga, cast to heaven the look of an unappreciated 
genius, and left my study. 

‘‘ I would have thought,” I said to the marquis, “ that 
yon ^vould have spared no sacrifice to retain that great 
man.” 

“ You judge me correctly, sir,” replied Monsieur de Mal- 
ouet ; “ but you’ll see that he carried me to the very limits 
of impossibility. Precisely a week ago, Monsieur Eos- 
tain, having solicited a private audience, announced tome 
that he found himself under the painful necessity of leav- 
ing my service. ‘ Heavens ! Monsieur Eostain, to leave 
my service 1 And where do you expect to go ? ’ ‘To 
Paris.’ ‘ What I to Paris I But you liad shaken upon the 
great Babylon the dust of your sandals ! The decadence 
of taste, the increasing development of the romantic cui- 
sine ! Such are your own words, Eostain ! ’ He replied : 
‘ Doubtless, Monsieur le Marquis ; but provincial life has 
bitter trials which I had not foreseen ! ’ I offered him 
fabulous wages ; he refused. — ‘ Come, my good fellow, 
what is the matter? Ah ! 1 see, yon don’t like the scul- 
lery-maid ; she disturbs your meditations by her vulgar 
songs ; very well, consider her dismissed ! . . . That is 
not enough ? Is it Antoine, then, who is objectionable ? 
I’ll discharge him ! Is it the coachman ? I’ll send him 
away ! ’ In short, I offered him, gentlemen, the whole 
household as a holocaust. But, at all these prodigious 


38 


LED ASTBAT; OB, 


concessions, tlie old chef shook liis head with indifference. 
‘ But finally,’ I exclaimed, ‘ in the name of Heaven, Mon- 
sieur Kostain, do explain! ^Mon Dieu ! Monsieur le 
Marquis,’ then said Jean Bostain, ‘ I must confess to you 
that it is impossible for me to live in a place where I find 
no one to play a game of billiards with me ! ’ Ma foi ! it 
was a little too much!” added the marquis, with cheerful 
good-nature. I could not really offer to play billiards with 
him myself ! I had to submit. I wrote at once to Paris, 
and last evening a young cook arrived, who wears a mus- 
tache and gave his name as Jacquemart (of Bordeaux). 
The classic Bostain, in a sublime impulse of artistic pride, 
volunteered to assist Monsieur Jacquemart (of Bordeaux) 
ill his first effort, and that’s how, gentlemen, I was able to- 
day to serve this great eclectic dinner, of which, I fear, 
we will alone, monsieur and myself, have appreciated the 
mysterious beauties.” 

Monsieur de Malouet rose from the table as he was con- 
cluding the story of Bostain’s epic. After cofiee, I fol- 
lowed the smokers into the garden. The evening was 
magnificent. The marquis led me away along the main 
avenue, the fine sand of which sparkled in the moonlight 
between the dense shadows of the tall chestnuts. While 
talking with apparent carelessness, he submitted me to a 
sort of examination upon a variety of subjects, as if to 
make sure that I was worthy of the interest he had so 
gratuitously manifested towards me up to this time. We 
were far from agreeing on all points ; but, gifted both 
with sincerity and good-nature, we found almost as much 
pleasure in arguing as we did in agreeing. That epi- 
curean is a thinker ; his thought, always generously in- 
clined, has assumed, in the solitude where it has developed 


PETITE G0MTES8E. 


39 


itself, a peculiar and paradoxal turn. I wish I could give 
you an idea of it. 

As we were returning to the chdteau, we heard a great 
noise of voices and laughter, and we saw at the foot of the 
stoop some ten or twelve young men who w^ere jumping 
and bounding, as if trying to reach, without the help of 
the steps, the platform that crowns the double staircase. 
We were able to understand the explanation of these pas- 
sionate gymnastics as soon as the light of the moon ena- 
bled us to distinguish a white dress on the platform. It 
Avas evidently a tournament of which the white dress was 
to crown the victor. The young lady (had she not been 
young, they would not have jumped so high) was leaning 
over the balustrade, exposing boldly to the dew of an au- 
tumn night, and to the kisses of Diana, her flower-wreathed 
head and her bare shoulders ; she was slightly stooping 
down, and held out to the competitors an object some- 
what difiicult to discern at a distance : it was a slender 
cigarette, the delicate handiwork of her white Angers and 
her rosy nails. Although there was nothing in the sight 
that w^as not charming. Monsieur de Malouet probably 
found iu it something he did not like, for his tone of 
cheerful good-humor became suddenly shaded with a per- 
ceptible tint of annoyance, when he murmured : 

“ There it is again ! I was sure of it ! It is the Little 
Countess ! ” 

It is hardly necessary for me to add that I had recog- 
nized, in the Little Countess^ my Amazon with the blue 
plume, who, with or without plume, seems to have always 
the same disposition. She recognized me perfectly also, on 
her side, as you’ll see directly. At the moment Avhen we 
were reaching, Monsieur de Malouet and myself, the top of 


40 


LED A8TBAT; OB, 


the stoop, leaving the rival pretenders to vie and struggle 
with increasing ardor, the little countess, intimidated per- 
haps by the presence of the marquis, resolved to put an 
end to the scene, and thrust abruptly her cigarette into my 
hand, saying : 

“ Here ! it’s for you ! After all, you jump better than 
any of them.” 

And she disappeared after this parting shaft, which pos- 
sessed the double advantage of hitting at once both the 
victor and the vanquished. 

This was, so far as I am concerned, the last noticeable 
episode of the evening. After a game or two of whist, I 
pretexted a little fatigue, and Monsieur de Malouet had 
the kindness to escort me in person to a pretty little room, 
hung with chintz and contiguous to the library. I was 
disturbed during part of the night by the monotonous 
sound of the piano and the rumbling noise of carriages, 
indications of civilization which made me regret more 
bitterly than ever my poor Thebais. 


Y. 


28 th Septembeb. 

I HAD the satisfaction of discovering in the library of 
the marquis the historical documents I needed. They 
form, indeed, a part of the ancient archives of the Abbey, 
and have a special interest for the family of Malouet. It 
was one William Malouet, a very noble man and a knight, 
who, about the middle of the twelfth century, with the 


PETITE C0MTE8SE: 


41 


consent of Messieurs his sons, Hughes, Foulgues, John, and 
Thomas, restored the church and founded the Abbey in 
favor of the order of the Benedictine monks, and for the 
salvation of his soul and of the souls of his ancestors, 
granting unto the congregation, among other dues and 
privileges, the fee-simple of the lands of the Abbey, the 
tithe of all its revenues, half the wool of its flocks, three 
loads of wax to be received every year at Mount Saint- 
Michel-on-the-sea ; then the river, the moors, the woods, 
and the mill, et moleiidinum in eodem situ. I took pleas- 
ure in following through the wretched latin of the time 
the description of this familiar landscape. It has not 
changed. 

The foundation charter bears date 1145. Subsequent 
charters show that the Abbey of Kozel was in possession, 
in the thirteenth century, of a sort of patriarchate o ver all 
the institutions of the order of Saint Benedict that were 
then in existence in the province of IS ormandy. A gen- 
eral chapter of the order was held there every year, pre- 
sided over by the Abbot of Bozel, and at which some ten or 
a dozen other convents were represented by their highest 
dignitaries. The discipline, the labors, the temporal and 
spiritual management of all the Benedictines of the prov- 
ince were here controlled and reformed with a severity 
which the minutes of these little councils attest in the 
noblest terms. These scenes, replete with dignity, took 
place in that Capitulary Hall now so shamefully defiled. 

Aside from the arcliives, this library is very rich, and 
this is apt to divert attention. Moreover, the vortex of 
worldly dissipation that rages in the chateau is not with- 
out occasionaly doing some prejudice to my independ- 
ence. Finally, my worthy hosts frequently take away with 


42 


LED A8TBAT; OR, 


one liand the liberty they have granted me with the other : 
like many persons of the world, they have not a very clear 
idea of the degree of connected occupation which deserves 
the name of work, and an hour or two of reading appears 
to them the utmost extent of labor that a man can bear 
in a day. 

Consider yourself wholly free,” Monsieur de Malouet 
tells me every morning ; “ go up to your hermitage ; work 
at your ease.” 

An hour later he is knocking at my door : 

Well ! are we hard at work ? ” 

‘‘ Why, yes, I am beginning to get into it.” 

What ! the deuce ! You have been at it more than two 
hours ! You are killing yourself-, my friend. However, yon 
are free. By the way, my wife is in the parlor ; when you 
have done you’ll go and keep her company, won’t you % ” 

“ Most undoubtedly I will.” 

‘‘ But only when you have entirely done, of course.” 

And he goes off for a hunt or a ride by the seaside. As 
to myself, preoccupied with the idea than I am expected, 
and satisfied that I shall be unable to do any further work 
of value,'! soon resolve to go and join Madame de Malouet, 
whom I find deeply engaged in conversation with the 
parish priest, or with Jacquemart (of Bordeaux). She has 
disturbed me, I am in her way, and we smile pleasantly 
to each other. 

Such is the manner in which the middle of the day 
usually passes off. 

In the morning, I ride on horseback with the marquis, 
who is kind enough to spare me the crowd and tumult of 
the general riding-parties. In the evening, I take a hand at 
whist, then I chat a while with the ladies, and I try my best 


“ZJ. PETITE COMTESSE: 


43 


to cast off at their feet my bear’s skin and reputation ; for I 
dislike to display any eccentricity of my own, this one 
rather more so than any other. There is in a grave dispo- 
sition, when carried to the point of stiffness and ill-grace 
towards women, something coarsely pedantic, that is un- 
becoming in great talents and ridiculous in lesser ones. I 
retire afterwards, and I work rather late in the library. 
That’s the best of my day. 

The society at the chateau is usually made up of the 
marquis’ guests, who are always numerous at this season, 
and of a few persons of the neighborhood. The object of 
these entertainments on a grand scale is, above all, to cele- 
brate the visit of Monsieur de Malouet’s only daughter, 
wlio comes every year to spend the autumn with her fam- 
ily. She is a person of statuesque beauty, who amuses 
hei’self with queenly dignity, and who communicates with 
ordinary mortals by means of contemptuous monosyllables 
uttered in a deep bass voice. She married, some twelve 
years ago, an Englishman, a member of the diplomatic 
corps. Lord A , a personage equally handsome and im- 

passive as herself. He addresses at intervals to his wife 
an English monosyllable, to which the latter replies im- 
perturbably with a French monosyllable. Nevertheless, 
three little lords, worthy the pencil of Lawrence, who 
strut majestically around this Olympian couple, attest be- 
tween the two nations a secret intelligence which escapes 
the vulgar observer. 

A scarcely less remarkable couple comes over to us daily 
from a neighboring chateau. The husband is one Mon- 
sieur de Breuilly, formerly an officer in King Charles X.’s 
body-guards, and a bosom friend of the marquis. He is 
a very lively old man, still quite fine-looking, and wear- 


44 : 


LED ASTBAT; OR, 


ing over close-cropped gray hair a hat too small for his 
head. He has an odd, though perhaps natural, way of 
scanning his words, and of speaking with a degree of de- 
liberation that seems affected. He would be quite pleas- 
ant, however, were it not that his mind is constantly tor- 
tured by an ardent jealousy, and by a no less ardent appre- 
hension of betraying his weakness, which, nevertheless, is 
a glaring and obvious fact to every one. It is difficult to 
understand how, with such a disposition and a great deal 
of common-sense, he has committed the signal error of 
marrying, at the age of fifty-five, a young and pretty 
woman, and a creole, I believe, in the bargain. 

“ Monsieur de Breuilly ! ” said the marquis, as he pre- 
sented me to the punctilious gentleman, “ my best friend, 
who will infallibly become yours also, and who, quite as 
infallibly, will cut your throat if you attempt to show 
any attention to his wife.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! my dear friend,” replied Monsieur de 
Breuilly, with a laugh that was anything but joyful, and 
accentuating each word in his peculiar style, “ why rep- 
resent me to this gentleman as a Herman Othello?' 
Monsieur may surely. . . . Monsieur is perfectly free to 
. . . besides, he knows and can observe the proper limits 
of things. At any rate, sir, here is Madame de Breuilly ; 
suffer me to recommend her myself to your kind atten- 
tions.” 

Somewhat surprised at this language, I had the sim- 
plicity, or perhaps the innocent malice, of interpreting it 
literally. I sat down squarely by the side of Madame de 
Breuilly, and I began paying her marked attention, while, 
however, observing the proper limits of things.” In 
the meantime. Monsieur de Breuilly was watching us 


PETITE C0MTES8E: 


45 


from a distance, with an extraordinary countenance. I 
could see liis little gray eyes sparkling like glowing ashes ; 
he was laughing loud, grinning, stamping, and fairly dis- 
jointing his fingers with sinister cracks. Monsieur de 
Malouet came suddenly to me, handed me a wdiist card, 
and taking me aside : 

“ What the deuce has got into you ? ” he said. 

Into me ? why, nothing ! ” 

“ Have I not w^arned you ? It’s quite a serious matter. 
Look at Breuilly ! It is the only weakness of that gallant 
man ; every one respects it here. Do likewise, I beg of 
you.” 

From the weakness of that gallant man, it results 
that his wfife is condemned in societj^ to perpetual quar- 
antine. The fighting propensities of a husband are often 
but an additional attraction for the lightning; but men 
hesitate to risk their lives without any prospect of possible 
compensation, and we have here a man who threatens 
you at least with a public scandal, not only before liar- 
vest, as they say, but even before the seed has been fairly 
sown. Such a state of affairs manifestly discourages the 
most enterprising, and it is quite rare that Madame de 
Breuilly has not two vacant seats on her right and on her 
left, despite her nonchalante grace, despite her great 
creole eyes, and despite her plaintive and beseecliing 
looks, that seem to be ever saying : “ Mon Dieu ! will no 
one lead me into temptation^” 

Yon would doubtless think that the evident neglect in 
which the poor wfife lives ought to be, for her husband, a 
motive of security. Hot at all ! Ilis ingenious mania 
manages to discover in that fact a fresh motive of per- 
plexity. 


46 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


“My friend,” lie was saying yesterday to Monsieur de 
Malouet, “ you know that I am no more jealous than any 
one else ; but without being Orosmane, I do not pretend 
to be George Dandin. Well ! one thing troubles me, my 
friend: have you noticed that apparently no one pays 
any attention to my wife ? ” 

“ Par bleu ! if that’s what troubles you. . . 

“ Of course it is ; you must admit that it is not natural. 
My wife is pretty ; why don’t they pay attention to her 
as well as to other ladies ? There is something suspicious 
there ! ” 

Fortunately, and to the great advantage of the social 
question, all the young women who reside in turn at the 
chateau are not guarded by dragons of that calibre. A 
few even, and among them two or three Parisians out for 
a holiday, display a freedom of manner, a love of pleas- 
ure, and an exaggerated elegance that certainly pass the 
bounds of discretion. You are aware that I have not the 
highest opinion of that sort of behavior, which does 
not answer my idea of the duties of a woman, and even 
of a woman of the world ; nevertheless, I take side with- 
out hesitation with these giddy ones ; and their conduct 
even appears to me the very ideal of truth and sincerity, 
when I hear nightly certain pious matrons distilling 
against them, amid low and vulgar gossip, the venom of 
the basest envy that can swell a rural heart. Moreover, 
it is not always necessary to leave Paris in order to have 
the ugly spectacle of these provincials let loose against 
what they call vice, namely, youth, elegance, distinction, 
charm, — in a word, all the qualities which the wortliy 
ladies possess no more, or have perhaps never possessed. 

Nevertheless, with whatever disgust these chaste vixens 


“X.4 PETITE COMTESSE. 


47 


inspire me for the virtue they pretend to uphold (O virtue ! 
how many crimes are committed in thy name!), I am 
compelled, to my great regret, to agree with them on one 
point, and to admit that one of their victims at least 
gives an appearance of justice to their reprobation and 
to their calumnies. The Angel of Kindness himself would 
hide his face in presence of this complete specimen of 
dissipation, of turbulence, of futility, and finally of 
worldly extravagance that bears the name of Countess de 
Palme, and the nickname of tlie Little Countess : a 
rather ill-fitting nickname, by the way, for the lady is 
not small, but simply slender and lithe. Madame de 
Palme is twenty-five years of age ; she is a widow ; she 
spends the winter in Paris with her sister, and tlie sum- 
mer in an old Norman manor-house, wfith lier aunt, Ma- 
dame de Pontbrian. Let me get rid of the aunt first. 

This aunt, who is of very ancient nobility, is partic- 
ularly noted for the fervor of her hereditary opinions, and 
for her strict devotion. Those are both claims to consid- 
eration which I admit fully, so far as I am concerned. 
Every solid principle and every sincere sentiment com- 
mand in these days a peculiar respect. Unfortunately 
Madame de Pontbrian seems to be one of those intensely 
devout persons who are but very indifferent Christians. 
She is one of those who, reducing to a few minor obser- 
vances, of wdiich they are ridiculously proud, all the duties 
of their religious or political faith, impart to both a harsh 
and hateful appearance, the effect of which is not exactly 
to attract proselytes. The outer forms, in all things, are 
sufficient for her conscience ; otherwise, no trace of 
charity or kindness ; above all, no trace of humility. 
Her genealogy, her assiduity to church, and her annual 


48 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


pilgrimages to the shrine of an illustrious exile (who 
would probably be glad to dispense with the sight of her 
countenance), inspire to this fairy such a lofty idea of 
herself and such a profound contempt for her neiglibor, 
that they make her positively unsociable. She remains 
forever absorbed in the latrian worship which she be- 
lieves due to herself. She deigns to speak but to God, 
and He must indeed be a kind and merciful God if He 
listens to lier. 

Under the nominal patronage of this mystic duenna, 
the Little Countess enjoys an absolute independence, 
which she uses to excess. After spending the winter in 
Paris, where she kills off regularly two horses and a coach- 
man every month for tlie sole gratification of waltzing 
ten minutes every night in half a dozen different balls, 
Madame de Palme feels the necessity of seeking rest in 
the peace of rural life. She arrives at her aunt’s, she 
jumxDS uj)on a horse, and she starts at full gallop. It 
matters not which way she goes, provided she keeps go- 
ing. Most generally she comes to the Chateau de Ma- 
louet, where the kind-hearted mistress of the house mani- 
fests for her an amount of predilection which I can hardly 
understand. Familiar with men, impertinent with 
women, the Little Countess offers a broad mark to the 
most indiscreet homage of the former, and to the jealous 
hostility of the latter. Indifferent to the outrages of 
X3ublic opinion, she seems ready to aspire to the coarsest 
incense of gallantry ; but what she requires above all 
things is noise, movement, a whirl, worldly pleasure cai*- 
ried to its mpst extreme and most extravagant fury ; 
what she requires every morning, every evening, and 
every night, is a break-neck chase, which she conducts 


PETITE C0MTE88E:' 49 

with frenzy ; a reckless game, in which she may break the 
bank ; an unbridled German, which she leads until dawn. 
A stoppage of a single minute, a moment of rest, of 
meditation and reflection, would kill her. ISTever was an 
existence at once so busy and so idle ; never a more un- 
ceasing and more sterile activity. 

Thus she goes through life hurriedly and without a 
halt, graceful, careless, busy, and ignorant as the horse 
she rides. Wlien she reaches the fatal goal, that woman 
will fall from the nothingness of her agitation into the 
nothingness of eternal rest, without the shadow of a seri- 
ous idea, the faintest notion of duty, the lightest cloud 
of a thought worthy a human being, having ever grazed, 
even in a dream, the narrow brain that is sheltered 
behind her pure, smiling, and stupid brow. It might be 
said that death, at whatever age it may overtake her, will 
find the Little Countess just as she left the cradle, if it 
were possible to suppose that she has preserved its inno- 
cence as well as she has retained its profound puerility. 

Has that madcap a soul ? — The word nothingness has 
escaped me. It is indeed difficult for me to conceive 
what might survive that body when it has once lost the 
vain fever and the frivolous breath that seem alone to ani- 
mate it. 

I know too well the miserable ways of the world, to 
take to the letter the accusations of immorality of which 
Madame de Palme is here the object on the part of the 
witches, as also on the part of some of her rivals who 
are silly enough to envy her social success. It is not in 
that respect, as you may understand, that I treat her with 
so much severity. Men, when they show themselves un- 
merciful for certain errors, are too apt to forget that they 
3 


50 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


have all, more or less, spent part of their lives seeking 
to bring them about for their own benelit. But there is 
in the feminine type which I have just sketched something 
more shocking than immorality itself, which, however, it is 
ratlier difficult to separate from it. And so, notwithstand- 
ing my desire of not making myself conspicuous in any- 
thing, I have been unable to take upon myself to join the 
throng of admirers whom Madame de Palme drags after 
her triumphal car. I know not whether 

“Le tyran dans sa cour remarqua mon absence.” 

[ am sometimes tempted to believe it, from the glances 
of astonishment and scorn with which I am overwhelmed 
when we meet ; but it is more simple to attribute these 
hostile symptoms to the natural antipathy that separates 
two creatures as dissimilar as we are. 1 look at her at 
times, myself, with the gaping surprise which must be 
excited in the mind of any thinking being by the mon- 
strosity of such a psychological phenomenon. In that 
way we are even. 

I ought rather to ^ay we we7^e even, for we are really 
no longer so, since a rather cruel little adventure that 
happened to me last night, and which constitutes in my 
account-current with Madame de Palme a considerable 
advance, which she will find it difficult to make up. I 
have told you that Madame de Malouet, through I know 
not what refinement of Christian charity, manifested a 
genuine predilection for the Little Countess. 1 was talk- 
ing with the marquise last evening in a corner of the 
drawing-room. I took the liberty of telling her that this 
predilection, coming from a woman like her, was a bad 
example ; that I had never very well understood, for my 


PETITE COMTESSE: 


51 


part, that passage of the Holy Scriptures in which the 
return of a single sinner is celebrated above the constant 
merit of a thousand just, and that this had always ap- 
peared to me very discouraging for the just. 

“ In the first place,” answered Madame de Malouet, 
“ the just do not get discouraged ; ,and in the next place, 
there are none. Do you fancy yourself one, by chance ? ” 
Certainly not ; I am perfectly well aware of the con- 
trary.” 

‘‘Well, then, where do you get the right of judging 
your neighbor so severely ? ” 

“I do not acknowledge Madame de Palme as my 
neiglibor.” 

“ That’s convenient ! Madame de Palme, sir, has been 
badly brought up, badly married, and always spoilt ; but, 
believe me, she is a genuine rough diamond.” 

“ I only see the roughness.” 

“ And rest assured that it only requires a skilful 
workman — I mean a good husband — to cut and polish 
it.” 

“ Allow me to pity that future lapidary.” 

Madame de Malouet tapped the carpet with her foot, 
and manifested other signs of impatience, which I knew 
not at first how to interpret, for she is never out of hu- 
mor ; but suddenly a thought, which I took for a lumin- 
ous one, occurred in my mind : I had no doubt that I had 
. at last discovered the weak side and the only failing in 
that charming old woman. She was possessed with the 
mania of match making, and, in her Christian anxiety to 
snatch the Little Countess from the abyss of perdition, she 
was secretly meditating to hurl me into it with her, un- 
worthy though I be. Penetrated with this modest con- 


52 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


viction, I kept upon a defensive that seems to me, at the 
present moment, perfectly ridiculous. 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” said Madame de Malouet, “ because you 
doubt her learning ! . . . ” 

“ I do not doubt her learning,” I said ; I doubt 
whether she knows how to read.” 

“ But, in short, what fault do you find with her 1 ” re- 
joined Madame de Malouet in a singularly agitated tone 
of voice. 

I determined to demolish, at a single stroke, the^ matri- 
monial dream with which I supposed the marchioness to 
be deluding herself. 

“ I find fault with her,” I replied, “ for giving to the 
world the spectacle, supremely irritating even for a pro- 
fane like me, of triumphant nullity and haughty vice. I 
am not worth much, it’s true, and I have no right to 
judge, but there is in me, as well as in any theatrical au- 
dience, a certain sentiment of reason and morality that 
rises in indignation in presence of personages wholly de- 
void of common-sense or virtue, and that protests against 
their triumph.” 

The old lady’s indignation seemed to increase. 

“ Do you think I would receive her, if she deserved all 
the stones which slander casts at her ? ” 

“ I think it is impossible for you to believe any evil.” 

Bah ! I assure you that you do not show in this case 
any evidence of penetration. These love-stories which 
are attributed to her are so little like her ! She is a child 
who does not even know what it is to love ! ” 

“ I am convinced of that, madame. Her commonplace 
coquetry is sufficient evidence of that. I am even ready 
to swear that the allurements of the imagination or the 


“ZJ. PETITE COMTESSE: 


53 


impulses of passion are wliolly foreign to her errors, 
which thus remain without excuse.” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! ” exclaimed Madame de Malouet, 
clasping her hands, do hush ! she is a poor, forsaken 
child ! I know her better than you do. I assure you that 
beneath her appearance — much too frivolous, I admit — 
she possesses in fact as much heart as she does sense.” 

“ That is precisely what I think, madame ; as much of 
one as of the other.” 

“ Ah ! that is really intolerable ! ” murmured Madame 
de Malouet, dropping her arms in a disconsolate man- 
ner. 

At the same moment, I saw the curtain that half cov- 
ered the door by the side of which we sat shake violentl}^, 
and the Little Countess, leaving the hiding-place where she 
had been confined by the exigencies of I know not what 
game, showed herself to us for a moment in the aperture 
of the door, and returned to join the group of players 
that stood in the adjoining parlor. 1 looked at Madame 
de Malouet : 

“ What ! she was there ! ” 

“ Of course she was. She heard us, and, what’s more, 
she could see us. I made all the signs I could, but you 
were off ! ” 

I remained somewhat embarrassed. I regretted the 
harshness of my words ; for, in attacking so violently 
tliis young person, I had yielded lo the excitement of 
controversy much more than to a sentiment of serious 
animadversion. In point of fact, she is indifferent to 
me, but it’s a little too much to hear her praised. 

“ And now what am I to do ? ” I said to Madame 
de Malouet. 


54 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


She reflected for a moment, and replied with a slight 
shrug of her shoulders : 

“ Ma foi ! nothing : that’s the best thing you can do.” 

The least breath causes a full cup to overflow ; thus 
the little unpleasantness of this scene seems to have 
intensified this feelino: of ennui which has scarce left me 
since my advent into this abode of joy. This continuous 
gayety, this restless agitation, this racing and dancing 
and dining, this ceaseless merry-making, and this eternal 
round of festivity importune me to the point of disgust. 
I regret bitterly the time I have wasted in reading and 
investigations which in no wise concern my ofiicial mis- 
sion and have but little advanced its termination ; I regret 
the engagements which the kind entreaties of my hosts 
have extorted from my weakness ; I regret my vale of 
Tempo ; above all, Paul, I regret you. There are cer- 
tainly in this little social centre a suflicient number of 
superior and kindly disposed minds to form the elements 
of the pleasantest and even the most elevated relations ; 
but these elements are fairly submerged in the worldly 
and vulgar throng, and can only be eliminated from it 
with much trouble and difiicultj^,'. and never without 
admixture. Monsieur and Madame de Malouet, Mon- 
sier de Brenilly even, when his insane jealous/ does not 
deprive liim of the use of his faculties, certainly possess 
choice minds and hearts ; but the mere ditlerence of age 
opens an abyss between us. As to the young men and 
the men of my own age whom I meet here, they all 
march with more or less eager step in Madame de 
Palme’s wake. It is enough that I should decline to 
follow them in that path, to cause them to manifest tow- 
ard me a coolness akin to antipathy. My pride does 


PETITE COMTESSE: 


55 


not attempt to break that ice, tliougb two or three among 
them appear well gifted, and reveal instincts superior 
to the life they have adopted. 

There is one question I sometimes ask of myself on 
that subject: are we any better, you and I, youthful Paul, 
than this crowd of joyous companions and pleasant 
viveurs, or are we simply different from them? Like 
ourselves, they possess honesty and honor ; like ourselves, 
they have neither virtue nor religion properly so-called. 
So far, we are equal. Our tastes alone and our pleas- 
ures differ ; all their preoccupations turn to the lighter 
ways of the world, to the cares of gallantry and material 
activity ; ours are almost exclusively given up to the 
exercise of thought, to the talents of the mind, to the 
works, good or evil, of the intellect. In the light of 
human truth, and according to common estimation, it is 
doubtful whether the difference in this particular is wholly 
in our favor ; but in a more elevated order, in the moral 
order, and, so to speak, in the presence of God, does 
that superiority hold good? Are we merely yielding, 
as they do, to an inclination that leads us rather more 
to one side than to an other, or are we obeying an imper- 
ative duty ? What is in the eyes of God the merit of 
intellectual life ? It seems to me sometimes that we 
possess for thought a species of pagan worship to which 
He attaches no value, and which perhaps even offends 
Him. More frequently, however, I think that He wishes 
us to make use of thought, were it even to be turned 
against Him, and that He accepts as an homage all the 
quiverings of that noble instrument of joy and torture 
which He has placed within us. 

Is not sadness, in periods of doubt and anxiety, a 


56 


LED A8TEAY; OE, 


species of religion? I trust so. We are, you and I, 
somewhat like those poor dreaming sphinxes who have 
been asking in vain for so many centuries, from the soli- 
tudes of the desert, the solution of the eternal riddle. 
Would it be a greater and more guilty folly than the 
happy carelessness of the Little Countess? We shall 
see. In the meantime, retain, for my sake, that ground- 
work of melancholy upon which you w^eave your own 
gentle mirth ; for, thank G od ! you are not a pedant : you 
can live, you can laugh, and even laugh aloud ; but thy 
soul is sad unto death, and that is only whv I love unto 
death thy fraternal soul. 


VI. 

1st October. 

Paul, there is something going on here that does not 
please me. I would like to have your advice ; send it 
as soon as possible. 

On Thursday morning, after finishing my letter, 
I went down to give it to the messenger, who leaves 
cpiite early; then,’^s it only wanted a few minutes of 
the breakfast-liour, I walked into the drawing-room, 
which was still empty. I was quietly looking over a 
Review by the fireside, when the door was suddenly 
filing open; I heard the crushing and rustling of a 
silk dress too broad to get easily through an aperture 
three feet wide, and I saw the Little Countess appear : 
she had spent the night at the chateau. 


PETITE GOMTESSE: 


57 


If you remember the unfortunate conversation in 
which I had become entangled, the previous evening, 
and which Madame de Palme had overheard from 
beginning to end, you will readily understand that this 
lady was the last person in the world with whom it 
might prove pleasant to find myself alone that morning. 

I rose and I addressed her a deep curtsey ; she 
replied with a nod, which, though slight, was still more 
than I deserved from her. The first steps she took in 
the parlor after she had seen me were stamped with 
hesitation and a sort of wavering : it was like the action 
of a partridge lightly hit on the wing and somewhat 
stunned by the shot. Would she go to the piano, to the 
window, to the right or to the left, or opposite ? It was 
clear that she did not know herself ; but indecision is 
not the weak point of her disposition : she soon made 
up her mind, and crossing the immense drawing-room 
with very firm step, she came in the direction of the 
chimney, that is, toward my immediate domain. 

Standing in front of my arm-chair with my Review 
in my hand, I was awaiting the event with an apparent 
gravity that concealed but imperfectly, I fear, a rather 
powerful inward anxiety. I had indeed every reason 
to apprehend an explanation and a scene. In every 
circumstance of this kind, the natural feelings of oar 
heart and the refinement which education and the habits 
of society add to them, the absolute freedom of the 
attack and the narrow limits allowed to the defence, 
give to women an overwhelming superiority over any 
man who is not a boor or a lover. In the particular 
crisis that was threatening me, the stinging consciousness 
of my wrongs, the recollection of the almost insulting 
3 * 


58 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


form under whicli my offence had manifested itself, 
united to deprive me of all thought of resistance ; I 
found myself delivered over, bound hand and foot, to 
the frightful wrath of a young and imperious woman 
thirsting for vengeance. My attitude w^as, therefore, 
not very brilliant. 

Madame de Palme stopped within two steps of me, 
spread her right hand on the marble of the mantel, and 
extended towards the blazing hearth the bronzed slipper 
within which her left foot was held captive. Having 
accomplished these preliminary dispositions, she turned 
towards me, and without addressing me a single word, 
she seemed to enjoy my countenance, which, I repeat, was 
not worth much. I resolved to sit down again and re- 
sume my reading; but pi'eviously, and by way of tran- 
sition, I thought best to say politely 

^‘Wouldn’t you like to have this Review^ madame? ” 

‘‘ Thank you, sir, I cannot read.” 

Such was the answer that was promptly shot oft at 
me in a brief tone of voice. I made with my head 
and my hand ‘a courteous gesture, by which I seemed to 
sympathize gently with the infirmity that was thus 
revealed to me, after which I sat down, feeling more 
easy. I had drawip my adversary’s fire. Honor seemed 
to me satisfied. 

Kevertheless^ after a few moments of silence, I began 
again to feel the awkwardness of my situation ; I strove 
in vain to become absorbed in my reading ; I kept seeing 
a multitude of little bronzed slippers dancing all over the 
paper. An open scene would have appeared to me de- 
cidedly preferable to this unpleasant and persistent prox- 
imity, to the mute hostility betrayed to my furtive glance 


PETITE C0MTE8SE. 


59 


by Madame de Palme’s restless foot, the jingle of her 
rings on the marble mantel, and the quivering mobility of 
her nostrils. I therefore unconsciously uttered a sigh of re- 
lief when the door, opening suddenly, introduced upon the 
stage a new personage, whom I f elt j ustiiied in considering 

as an ally. It was a lady, — a school-friend of Lady A , 

— whose name is Madame' Durmaitre. She is a widow, 
and extremely handsome ; she is noted for a lesser de- 
gree of folly amid the wild and worldly ladies of the 
chateau. For this reason, and somewhat also on account 
of her superior charms, she has long since conquered the 
ill-will of Madame de Palme, who, in allusion to her 
rival’s sombre style of dress, to the languid character of 
her beauty, and to the somewhat elegiac turn of her con- 
versation, is pleased to designate her, among the young 
people, as the Malabar Widow. Madame Durmaitre is 
positively lacking in wit ; but she is intelligent, tolerably 
well read, and much inclined to reverie. She prides her- 
self upon a certain talent for conversation. Seeing that 
I am myself destitute . of any other social accomplish- 
ment, she has got into her head that I must possess that 
particular one, and she has undertaken to make sure of 
it. The result has been, between us, a rather assiduous, 
and almost cordial intercourse ; for if I have been unable 
to fully respond to all her hopes, I listen at least with re- 
ligious attention to the little melancholy pathos which is 
habitual with her. I appear to understand her, and she 
seems grateful for it. The truth is that 1 never tire 
hearing her voice, which is musical, gazing at her features, 
which are exquisitely regular, and admiring her large 
black eyes, over which a fringe of heavy eyelashes casts a 
mystic shadow. However, do not feel uneasy ; I have 


60 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


decided that the time for beiog loved, and consequently 
for loving, is over for me ; now, love is a malady which 
no one need fear, if he sincerely strive to repress its first 
symptoms. 

Madame de Palme had turned around at the sound of 
the opening door; when she recognized Madame Dur- 
maitre, a fierce light gleamed in her blue eyes ; chance 
liad sent her a victim. She allowed the beautiful widow 
to advance a few paces towards us, with the slow and 
mournful step which is characteristic of her manner, and 
bursting out laughing : 

“ Bravo ! ” she exclaimed with emphasis, “ the march to 
the scaffold ! the victim dragged to the altar ! Iphigenia ; 
or, rather, Hermione . . . 

“ ‘ Pleurante aprfes son char vons voulez qu’on me voie ! ’ 

Who is it that has written this verse ? I am so i^no- 

O 

rant ! — Ah 1 it’s your friend, M. de Lamartine, I believe. 
He was thinking of you, my dear ! ” 

‘‘All ! you quote poetry now, dear madame ? ” said 
Madame Durmaitre, who is not very skilled at retort. 

“ Why not, dear madame ? Have you a monopoly of 
it ? — ‘ Pleurante apres sonchar ? — I have heard Eachel 
say that. — By the way, it is not by Lamartine, it’s by 
Boileau. I must tell you, dear Nathalie, that I intend to 
ask you to give me lessons in serious and virtuous con- 
versation. It’s so amusing ! And to begin at once, come ! 
tell me whom you prefer, Lamartine or Boileau ? ” 

“But, Bathilde, there is no connection,” replied 
Madame Durmaitre, rather sensibly and much to can- 
didly. 

“Ah!” rejoined Madame de Palme. And suddenly 


PETITE C0MTES8EP 61 

pointing me ont with her finger : “ Ton perhaps prefer 
this gentleman, who also writes poetry ? ” 

“No, madame,” I said, “it is a mistake; I write none.” 

“ Ah ! I thought you did. I beg your pardon.” 

Madame Durmaitre, who doubtless owes the unalterable 
serenity of her soul to the consciousness of her supreme 
beauty, had been content with smiling with disdainful 
nonchalance. She dropped into the arm-chair, which I 
had given up to her. 

“ What gloomy weather ! ” she said to me ; “ really, this 
autumnal sky weighs upon the soul. I was looking out of 
the window : all the trees look like cypress-trees, and the 
whole country looks like a graveyard. It would really 
seem that. . . 

“No, ah! no .... I beg of you, Nathalie,” Inter- 
rupted Madame de Palme, “ say no more. That’s enough 
fun before breakfast. You’ll make yourself sick.” 

“Well, now! my dear Bathilde, you must really 
have slept very badly last night,” said the beautiful 
widow. 

“ I, my dear ? ah ! do not say that. I had celestial, 
ecstatic dreams ; ecstasies, you know. . . . My soul held 
converse with other souls. . . . like your own soul. . . . 
Angels smiled at me through the foliage of the cypress- 
trees . . . and so forth, and so forth ! ” 

Madame Durmaitre blushed slightly, shrugged her 
shoulders, and took up the Review I had laid upon the 
mantel-piece. 

“ By the bye, Nathalie,” resumed Madame de Palme, 
“ do you know who we are going to have at dinner to- 
day, in the way of men ? ” 

The good-natured Nathalie mentioned Monsieur de 


62 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


BreiiillyT^two or three other married gentlemen, and the 
parish priest. 

“ Then I am going away after breakfast,” said the Lit- 
tle Countess, looking at me. 

“That’s very polite for us,” murmured Madame Dur- 
maitre. 

“ You know,” replied the other with imperturbable as- 
surance, “ that I only like men’s society, and there are 
three classes of individuals whom I do not consider as 
belonging to that sex, or to any other : those are married 
men, priests, and savants P 

As she concluded this sentence, Madame de Palme cast 
another glance at me, of which, however, I had no need to 
understand that she included me in her classification of 
neutral species ; it could only be among the individuals of 
the third category, though I have no claim to it whatever ; 
but it does not require much to be considered a savant by 
the ladies. 

Almost at this very moment, the breakfast-bell rang in 
the court-yard of the chateau, and she added : 

“ Ah ! there’s breakfast, thank Heaven ! for I am devil- 
ish hungrjq with all respect for pure spirits and troubled 
souls.” 

She then ran and skipped to the other end of the par- 
lor to greet Monsieur de Malouet, who was coming in 
followed by his guests. As to myself, I promptly offered 
my arm to Madame Durmaitre, and I endeavored by 
earnest attentions, to make her forget the storm which 
the mere shade of sympathy she manifests towards me 
had just attracted upon her. 

As you may have remarked, the Little Countess had ex- 
hibited in the course of this scene, as always, an unmeas- 


“ZJ. PETITE C0MTE88E: 


C3 


iired and unseemly freedom of language ; but she liad 
displayed greater resources of mind than 1 supposed her 
capable of doing, and though they had been directed 
against me, I could not help feeling thankful to her, — 
to such an extent do I hate fools, whom I have ever found 
in this world more pernicious than wicked people. The 
result was, that to the feeling of repulsion and contempt 
with which the extravagantly worldly woman inspired me, 
there was henceforth mingled a shade of gentle pity for 
the badly brought-up child and the misdirected woman. 

Women are prompt in catching delicate shades of feel- 
ing, and the latter did not escape Madame de Palme. 
She became vaguely conscious of a slightly favorable 
change in my opinion of her, and it was not long before 
she even began to exaggerate its extent and to attempt 
abusing it. For two days she pursued me with her keen- 
est shafts, which I bore good-naturedly, and to which I 
even responded with some little attentions, for I had still 
at heart the rude expressions of my dialogue with Madame 
de Malouet, and I did not think I had sufficiently expi- 
ated them by the feeble martyrdom I had undergone the 
following day in common with the beautiful Malabar 
Widow. 

This was enough to cause Madame Bathilde de Palme 
to imagine that she could treat me as a conquered prov- 
ince, and add Ulysses to his companions. Day before 
yesterday she had tested several times during the day 
the extent of her growing power over my heart and my 
will, by asking two or three little services of me; services 
to the honor of which every one here eagerly aspires, and 
which, for my part, I discharged politely but with evi- 
dent coolness. 


64 


LED A8TBAT; OR, 


In spite of the extreme reserve with which I had lent 
myself to these trials during the day, Madame de Palme 
believed in her complete success; she hastily judged that 
she now had but to rivet my chains and bind me to her 
triumph, a feeble addition of glory assuredly, but which 
had, after all, the merit, in her eyes, of having been con- 
tested. During the evening, as I was leaving the whist- 
table, she advanced towards me deliberately, and re- 
quested me to do lier the lionor of figuring with her in 
the character dance called the cotillon.^ I excused my- 
self laughingly on my complete inexperience ; she in- 
sisted, declaring that I had evident dispositions for danc- 
ing, and reminding me of the agility I had displayed in 
the forest. Finally, and to close the debate, she led me 
away familiarly by the arm, adding that she was not in 
the habit of being refused. 

“ 'Nor I, madame,” I said, “ in that of making a show 
of myself.” 

What ! not even to gratify me ? ” 

“Not even for that, madame, and were it the only 
means of succeeding in doing so.’’ 

I bowed to her smilingly after these words, which I 
had emphasized in such a positive manner that she in- 
sisted no more. She left my arm abruptly and returned 
to join a group of dancers who were observing us at a 
distance with manifest interest. She was received by 
them with whispers and smiles, to which she replied with 
a few rapid sentences, among which I only caught the 
word revanche. I paid no further attention to the mat- 
ter for the time being, and my soul went to converse 
amid the clouds with the soul of Madame Durmaitre. 


* The German. 


PETITE C0MTES8E: 


65 


The next day a grand hunt was to take place in the 
forest. I had arranged to take no share in it, wishing to 
make the best of a whole day of solitude to push forward 
my hopeless undertaking. Towards noon, the hunters 
met in the court-yard of the chateau, which rang again 
for some fifteen minutes with the loud blast of the trum-> 
pets, the stamping of horses, and the yelping of the pack. 
Then the tumultuous crowd disappeared down the ave- 
nue, the noise gradually died away, and I remained 
master of myself and of my mind, in the midst of a si- 
lence the more grateful that it is the more rare on this 
meridian. 

I had been enjoying my solitude for a few minutes, and 
I was turning over the folio pages of the Neiistra 
while smiling at my own happiness, when I fancied I 
heard the gallop of a horse in the avenue, and soon after 
on the pavement of the court. Some hunter behind 
time, I thought, and, taking up my pen, I began extract- 
ing from the enormous volume the passage relating to 
the General Chapters of the Benedictines ; but a new 
and more serious interruption came to afilict me : some 
one was knocking at the library-door. I shook my head 
with ill-humor, and I said “Come in !” in the same tone 
in which I might have said “ Go away 1 ” Some one did 
come in. I had seen, a few moments before, Madame de 
Palme taking her flight, feathers and all, at the head of 
the cavalcade, and I was not a little surprised to find her 
again within two steps of me as soon as the door was 
open. Her head was bare, and her hair was tucked up 
behind in an odd manner; she held her whip in one 
hand, and with the other lifted up tlie long train of her 
riding-habit. The excitement of the rapid ride she had 


66 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


just had seemed further to intensify the expression of 
audacity which is habitual to her look and to her features. 
And yet her voice was less assured than usual when she 
exclaimed as she came in : 

“ Ah ! I beg your pardon ! I thought Madame de 
Malouet was here ? ” 

I had risen at once to my full height. 

'No, madame, she is not here.’’ 

‘‘ Ah ! excuse me. Do you know where she is ? ” 

I do not, madame ; but I can go and ascertain, if you 
wish.” 

“ Thanks, thanks ! I’ll find her easy enough. The fact 
is, I met with a little accident.” 

Indeed ! ” 

‘‘ Oh, not much ! a trailing limb tore the band off my 
hat, and my feathers dropped off.” 

“ Your blue feathers, madame ? ” 

Yes, my blue feathers. In short, I have returned to 
the chateau to have my hat-band sewed on again. You 
are comfortable there to work ? ” 

“ Perfectly so, madame. I could not be better.” 

Are you very busy just now ? ” 

Well, yes, madame, rather busy.” 

Ah ! I am sorry.” 

“ Why so ? ” 

“ Because, I had an idea ... I thought of asking you 
to accompany me to the forest. The gentlemen will be 
nearly there when I am ready to start again, — and I can- 
not very well go on alone so far. . . .” 

While lisping this somewhat confused explanation, the 
Little Countess had an expression at once sly and embar- 
rassed, which greatly fortified the sentiment of distrust 


“ZJ. PETITE G0MTE88E» 67 

whicli the awkwardness of her entrance had excited in 
my mind. 

“ Madame,” I said, “ yon really distress me. I shall 
regret all my life to have missed the delightful occasion 
you are kind enough to offer me ; but it is indispensable 
that to-morrow’s mail shall carry off this report, which the 
minister is expecting with extreme impatience.” 

“ Yon are afraid to lose your situation ? ” 

“ I have none to lose, madame.” 

“ Well, then, let the minister wait, for my sake ; it will 
flatter me.” 

“ That is impossible, madame.” 

She assumed a very dry tone : 

“ But, that is really strange ! What ! you are not more 
anxious to be agreeable to me ? ” 

Madame,” I replied rather dryly in my turn, “ I 
should be extremely anxious to be agreeable to you, but 
I am not at all anxious to help you win your wager.” 

I threw out that insinuation somewhat at random, rest- 
ing it upon some recollections and some slight indications 
which you may have been able to collect here and there 
in the course of my narrative. Nevertheless, I had hit it 
exactly. Madame de Palme blushed up to her ears, 
stammered out two or three words which I failed to 
catch, and left the room, having lost all countenance. 

This precipitate retreat left me quite confused myself. 
I cannot admit that we should carry out our respect for 
the weaker sex so far as to lend ourselves to every caprice 
and every enterprise it may please a woman to direct 
against our peace or our dignity; but our right of 
legitimate self-defence in such encounters is circum- 
scribed within narrow and delicate limits, which I feared 


68 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


I had overstepped. It was enough that Madame de 
Palme should be alone in the world, and without any 
other protection but her sex, to make it seem extremely 
painful to me to have thoughtlessly yielded to the irrita- 
tion, just though it might be, which her impertinent in- 
sistance had aroused. As I was endeavoring to establish 
between our respective wrongs a balance that might serve 
to quiet my scruples, there was another knock at the 
library-door. This time, it was Madame de Malouet who 
came in. She was much moved. 

“ Do tell me what has taken place,” she said. 

I gave her full and minute particulars of my interview 
with Madame de Palme, and, while expressing much re- 
gret at my vivacity, I added that the lady’s conduct to- 
wards me was inexplicable ; that she Jiad taken me twice 
within twenty-four hours for the subject of her wagers, 
and that it was a great deal too much attention, on her 
part, for a man who asked her, as a sole favor, not to 
trouble herself about him any more than he troubled 
himself about her. 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” said the kind marquise, I have no 
fault to find with you. I have been able to appreciate 
with my own eyes, during the past few days, your conduct 
and her own. But all this is very disagreeable. That 
child has just thrown herself in my arms weeping terribly. 
She says you have treated her like a creature. . . .” 

I protested : I have repeated to you, word for word, 
madame, what passed between us.” 

“ It was not your words, it was your expression, your 
tone. Monsieur George, let me speak frankly with you : 
are you afraid of falling in love with Madame de 
Palme ? ” 


‘•XJ. PETITE COMTESSE: 


69 


“ Not in tlie least, madame.” 

“ Are you anxious that she should fall in love with 
you ? ” 

“ Neither, I assure you.” 

“Well, then, do me a favor: lay aside your pride for 
one day, and escort Madame de Palme to the hunt.” 

“ Madame ! ” 

“ The advice may seem singular to you. But rest as- 
sured that I do not offer it without mature reflection. 
The repulsion which you manifest for Madame do Palme 
is precisely what attracts towards you that imperious and 
spoilt child. She becomes irritated and obstinate in 
presence of a resistance to which she has not been accus- 
tomed. Be meek enough to yield to her fancy. Do that 
for me.” 

“ Seriously madame, you think ? . . . ” 

“ I think,” interrupted the old lady laughingly, “ with 
due respect to you, that you will lose your principal merit 
in her eyes as soon as she sees you submit to her yoke 
like all the rest.” 

“ Really, madame, you present things to me under an 
entirely novel aspect. It never occurred to me to attrib- 
ute Madame de Palme’s mischievous pranks to a senti- 
ment of which I might have reason to be proud.” 

“ And you have been quite right,” she resumed sharply ; 
“ there is, thank Heaven ! nothing of the kind as yet ; but 
it might have come, and you are too fair a man to desire 
it, with the views which I know you to entertain.” 

“ I trust myself wholly to your direction, madame ; — 1 
am going to fetch my hat and gloves. The question is 
now, how Madame de Palme will receive my somewhat 
tardy civility.” 


70 


LED ASTBA7; OB, 


“ She will receive it very well, if you offer it with good 
grace.’’ 

As to that, madame, I shall offer it with all the good 
grace I can command.” 

On this assurance, Madame de Malouet held out her 
hand, which I kissed with profound respect but rather 
slim gratitude. 

When I entered the parlor, booted and spurred, Ma- 
dame de Palme was alone there : deeply seated in an arm- 
chair, buried under her skirts, she was putting the finish- 
ing touches to her hat. She raised and dropped rapidly 
again her eyes, which were very red. 

‘‘ Madame,” I said, “ I am so sincerely sorry to have of- 
fended you, that I venture to ask your pardon for an un- 
pardonable piece of rudeness. I have come to hold myself 
at your disposition ; if you decline my escort, you will 
not only be infiicting upon me an amply deserved morti- 
fication, but you will leave me still more unhappy than I 
have been guilty, . . . and that is saying a great deal.” 

Madame de Palme, taking into consideration the 
emotion of my voice rather more than my diplomatic 
pathos, lifted her eyes upon me again, opened her lips 
sliglitly, said nothing, and finally advanced a somewhat 
tremulous hand, which I hastened to receive within my 
own. She availed herself at once of this jpoint Wa^p^ui 
to get on her feet, and bounded lightly to the fioor. A 
few minutes later, we were both on horseback and leav- 
ing the court-yard of the chateau. 

AVe reached the extremity of the avenue without having 
exchanged a single word. I felt deej^ly, as you may be- 
lieve, how much this silence, on my part at least, was 
awkward, stiff, and ridiculous ; but, as it often happens in 


“Z.! PETITE C0MTES8EP 


n 


circninstances wliicli demand most imperatively tlie re- 
sources of eloquence, I was stricken with an invincible 
sterility of mind. I tried in vain to find some plausible 
subject of conversation, and the more annoyed 1 felt at 
finding none, the less capable I became of doing so. 

“ Suppose we have a run ? ” said Madame de Palme 
suddenly. 

“ Let us have a run ! ” I said ; and we started at a 
gallop, to my infinite relief. 

Nevertheless, it became absolutely necessary to check 
our speed at the entrance of the tortuous path that leads 
down into the valley of the ruins. The care required to 
guide our horses during that difficult descent served for a 
few minutes longer as a pretex for my silence ; but, on 
reaching the level ground of the valley, I saw that I must 
speak at any cost, and I was about to begin with some 
commonplace remark, when Madame de Palme was kind 
enough to anticipate me : 

“ They say, sir, that you are very witty ? ” 

‘‘You may judge for yourself, madame,” I replied 
laughingly. 

“Pather difficult so far, even if I were able, which you 
are very far from conceding. Oh ! you need not deny 
it ! It’s perfectly useless, after the conversation which 
chance made me overhear the other night.” 

“ I have made so many mistakes concerning you, 
madame, you must realize the pitiful confusion I feel 
towards you.” 

“ And in what respect have you been mistaken ? ” 

“ In all respects,'! believe.” 

“ You are not quite sure? . . . Admit at least that I 
am a good-natured woman.” 


72 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


“ Oh ! with all my heart, madame ! ” 

“ You said that well. ... I believe you think it. You 
are not bad either, I believe, and yet you have been 
cruelly so to me.’' 

“ That is true.” 

“ What sort of man are you then, pray ? ” resumed the 
Little Countess in her brief and abrupt tone. “ I cannot 
understand it very well. By what right, on what ground 
do you despise me? Suppose I am really guilty of all 
the intrigues w^hich are attributed to me ; what is that to 
you? Are you a saint yourself ? a reformer ? Have you 
never gone astray? Are you any more virtuous than 
other men of your age and condition ? What right have 
you to despise me ? Explain ! ” 

Were I guilty of the sentiments which you attribute 
to me, madame, I should answer, that never has any one, 
either in your sex or mine, taken his own morality as the 
rule of his opinion and his judgment upon others ; we 
live as we can, and we judge as we should ; it is more 
particularly a very frequent inconsistency among men, to 
frown down unmercifully the very weaknesses which they 
encourage and of which the}^ derive the benefit. For my 
part, I hold severely aloof from a degree of austerity, as 
ridiculous in a man as uncharitable in a Christian. And 
as to that unfortmiate conversation which a deplorable 
chance caused you to hear, and in which my expressions, 
as it always happens, went far beyond the measure of my 
thought, — it is an offence which I can never obliterate, I 
know ; but I shall at least explain frankly. Every one has 
his own tastes and his way of understanding life in this 
world ; we differ so much, you and I, in that respect, that I 
conceived for you, and you conceived for me, at first sight, 


PETITE COMTE S8E 


73 


an extreme antipathy. This disposition, which, on one side 
at least, madame, was to be singularly modified on better 
acquaintance, prompted me to some thouglitless manifes- 
tations of ill-humor and vivacity of controversy. Yon 
have doubtless suffered, madame, from the violence of my 
language, but much less, I beg you to believe, than I was 
to suffer from it myself, after I had recognized its pro- 
found and irreparable injustice.” 

This apology, more sincere than lucid, drew forth no 
answer. We were at this moment just coming out of tlie 
old Abbey church, and we found ourselves unexpectedly 
mingled to the last ranks of the cavalcade. Our appear- 
ance caused a suppressed murmur to run through the 
dense crowd of hunters. Madame de Palme was at once 
surrounded by a merry throng that seemed to address 
congratulations to her on the winning of her wager. 
She received them with an indifferent and pouting look, 
whipped up her horse, and made her way to the front be- 
fore entering the forest. 

In the meantime. Monsieur de Malouet had received 
me with still more cordial affability than usual, and with- 
out making any direct allusion to the incident which had 
brought me against my will to this cynegetic feast, he 
omitted no attention that could make me forget its trifling 
annoyance. Soon after the hounds started a deer, and I 
followed them with keen relish, being by no means indif- 
ferent to that manly pastime, though it is not sufficient for 
my happiness in this world. 

The pack was thrown off the scent two or three times, 
and the deer had the best of the day. At about four 
o’clock we started on our way back to the chateau. When 
we crossed tlie valley on our return, the twilight was al- 
4 ^ 


74 


LED ASTEAY; OR, 


ready marking out more clearly upon the sky the outline 
of the trees and the crest of the hills ; a mela^holy shade 
was falling upon the woods, and a whitish fo*chilled the 
grass on the meadows, whilst a thicker mist indicated the 
sinuous course of the little river. As I remained ab- 
sorbed in the contemplation of that scene which reminded 
me of better days, = I discovered suddenly Madame do 
Palme at my side. 

“ I believe, after due reflection,” she said with her usual 
abruptness, “ that you scorn my ignorance and my lack of 
wit much more than my supposed want of morality. 
You think less of virtue than you do of intelligence. Is 
that it ? ” 

Certainly not,” I said laughingly ; “ that isn’t it ; that 
isn’t it at all. In the first place, the word scorn must be 
suppressed, having nothing to do here ; then, I don’t much 
believe in your ignorance, and not at all in your lack of 
wit. Finally, I see notliing above virtue, when I see it 
at all, which is not often. Furthermore, madame, I feel 
confused at the importance you attach to my opinion. 
The secret of my likes and dislikes is quite simple : I 
have, as I was telling you, the most religious respect for 
virtue, but all mine is limited to a deep-seated sentiment 
of a few essential duties which I practise as best I can ; I 
could not therefore ask any more of others. As to the 
intellect, I confess that I value it greatly, and life seems 
too serious a matter to me to be treated on the footing of 
a perpetual ball, from the cradle to the grave. Moreover, 
the productions of the mind, works of art in particular, 
are the object of my most passionate preoccupations, and 
it is natural that I should like being able to speak of what 
interests me. That’s all.” 


“ZJ. PETITE C0MTE8SE. 


75 ' 

Is it absolutely necessary to be forever talking of tlie 
ecstasies of llie soul, of cemeteries, and tlie Yenus of Milo, 
in order to obtain in your opinion the rank of a serious 
woman and a woman of taste ? But, after all, you are 
right ; I never think ; if I did for one single minute, it 
seems to me that I should go mad, that my head would 
split. — And wjiat were you thinking about yourself, in 
that old convent cell ? ” 

I thought a great deal about you,’’ I replied gayly, 
on the evening of that day when you hunted me down 
so unmercifully, and I abused you most heartily.” 

“ I can understand that.’^ She began laughing, look- 
ing all around her, and added : “ What a lovely valley ! 
what a delightful evening ! And now, are you still dis- 
posed to abuse me 'i ” 

Now, I wish from the bottom of my soul I were able 
to do something for your happiness.” 

And I for yours,” she said quietly. 

I bowed for all answer, and a brief pause followed : 

If I were a man,” suddenly said Madame de Palme, 

“ I believe I would like to be a hermit.” 

“ Oh ! what a pity ! ” 

“ That id«aidoes not surprise you ? ” 

No, madame.” 

“Nothing from me would surprise you, I suppose. 
You believe me capable of anything — of anything, per- 
haps even of being fond of you ? ” 

“ Why not ? Greater wonders have been seen ! Am 
I not fond of you myself at the present moment ? That’s 
a fine example to follow ! ” 

“ You must give me time to think about it ? ” 

“ Not long ! ” 


76 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


As long as it may be necessary. We are friends in 
tbe meantime ? ” 

If we are friends, there is nothing further to expect,” 
I said, holding out my hand frankly to the Little Countess. 
I felt that she was pressing it lightly, and the conversa- 
tion ended there. We had reached the- top of the hills ; 
it was now quite dark, and we galloped all the rest of the 
way to the chateau. 

As I was coming down from . my room for dinner, I 
met Madame de Malouet in the vestibule. 

^AYell!” she sa^d laughingly, ‘‘did you conform to 
the prescription ? ” # . 

“ Ligidly, madame.” 

“ You sliowed yourself subjugated ? ” 

“ I did, madame.” 

“ Excellent ! She is satisfied now, and so are you.” 

Amen 1 ” 1 said. 

The evening passed off without further incident. I 
took pleasure in doing for Madame de Palme some tri- 
fling services which she was no longer asking. She left 
the dance two or. three times to come and address me 
,some good-natured jests that passed Through her brain, 
and when I withdrew, she followed rne to door with 
. a smilino; and cordial look. 

' I ask you now, friend Paul, to sift the precise meaning 
and the moral of this tale. You may perhaps judge, and 
I hope you will, that a chimerical imagination can alone 
magnify into an event this vulgar episode of society 
life; but if you see in the facts I have just told you the 
least germ of danger, the slightest element of a serious 
complication, tell me so : I’ll break the engagements that 


“ZJ. PETITE G0MTE88EP 77 

were to detain me here some ten or twelve days longer, 
and ni leave at once. 

I do not love Madame de Palme ; I cannot and will 
not love her. My opinion of her has evidently changed 
greatly ; I look upon her henceforth as a good little 
woman. Her head is light and will always be so ; her 
behavior is better than she gets credit for, thoagh perhaps 
not as good as she represents it herself ; finally, her heart 
has both weight and value. I feel some friendship for 
her, an affection that has something fraternal in it ; but 
between her and me, nothing further is at all likely ; the 
expanse of the heavens divides us. The idea of being 
her husband makes me burst out laughing, and through 
a sentiment which you will readily appreciate, the thouglit 
of being her lover inspires me with horror. As to her, I 
believe she may feel the shadow of a caprice, but not 
even the dawn of a passion. Here I am now upon her- 
etagere With the rest of the figure-heads, and I think, as 
does Madame de Malouet, that may be enough to satisfy 
her. However, what do you think of it yourself ? 

# 


YII. 

7th October. 

Dear Paul, I take part in your grief from the bottom 
of my lieart. Allow me, however, to assure 3^011 from the 
very details of your own letter that 3"our dear mother’s 
illness offers no alarming symptoms whatever. It is one 
of those painful but harmless crises which the approach 


78 


LED Asm AT; OB, 


of winter brings back upon her almost invariably every 
year, as you know. Patience therefore, and courage, I 
beseech you. 

It requires, my friend, the formal expression of your 
wishes to induce me to venture upon mingling my petty 
troubles to your grave solicitude. As you anticipated in 
wisdom and in your kind friendship, it was consola- 
tion and not advice that I stood in need of when I received 
your letter. My heart is not at peace, and, what is worse 
for ihb, neither is my conscience ; and yet, I think I have 
done ray duty. Have I understood it right or not? 
Judge for yourself. ^ 

I take up my situation towards Madame de Palme where 
I had left it in my last letter. — The day after our mutual 
explanation, I Took every care to maintain our relations 
upon the footing of good-fellowship on which they seemed 
established, and which constituted, in my idea, the only 
sort of intelligence desirable and even possible between 
us. It seemed to me, on that day, that she manifested the 
same vivacity and the same spirit as usual; yet I fancied 
that her voice and her look, when she addressed me, as- 
sumed a meek gravity which is not a part of her usual 
disposition ; but on the following days, thot§}i I had not 
deviated from the line of conduct I had marked out for 
myself, it became impossible for me not to notice that 
Madame de Palme had lost something of her gayety, and 
that a vague preoccupation clouded the serenity of her 
brow. I could see her dancing-partners surprised at her 
frequent absence of mind : she still followed the whirl, 
but she no longer led it. Under pretext of fatigue, she 
would leave suddenly and abruptly her partner’s arm, in 
the midst of a waltz, to go and sit in some corner with a 


PETITE COMTESSE: 


79 


pensive and even a pouting look. If there happened to 
be a vacant seat next to. mine, she threw herself into it, 
and began from behind her fan some whimsical and dis- 
jointed conversation like the following: 

“ If I cannot be a hermit, I am going to become a nun. 
What would you say, if you saw me enter a convent to- 
morrow ? ” 

“ I should say that you would leave it the day after to- 
morrow.” 

You have no confidence in my resolutions ? ” 

‘‘ When they are unwise, no.” 

“ I can only form unwise ones, according to you ? ” 

“ According to me, you waltz admirably. When a per- 
son waltzes as you do, it’s an art, almost a virtue.” 

“ Is it customary to flatter one’s friends ? ” 

‘‘ I am not flattering you. I never speak a single word 
to you that I have not carefull}^ weighed, and that is not 
the most earnest expression of my thought. I am a serious 
man, madame.” 

“ It does not seem so when you are with me. I verily 
believe you have undertaken to make me hate laughter 
as much as I used to like it.” 

I do not-understand you.” 

“ How do you think I look to-night ? ” 

“ Dazzling ! ” 

“ That’s too much ! I know that I am not handsome.” 

I don’t say that you are handsome, but you are ex- 
tremely graceful.” 

‘‘ That’s better ; and it must be true, for I feel it. The 
Malabar Widow is really handsome.” 

“ Yes, I should like to see her at the funeral pile.” 

“ To jump into it with her 1 ” 


80 


LED A8TBAY; OB, 


“ Exactly.” 

“ Do you expect to leave soon 2 ” 

“ Next week, I believe.” 

“ Will you come and see me in Paris ? ” 

\ “ If you will allow me.” 

“ No, I don’t allow you.” 

“ And why not 2 great Heavens ! ” 

In the first place, I don’t think I am going back to 
Paris myself.” 

“ That’s a good reason. And where do you expect to 
go, madame ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Let us make a pedestrian tour some- 
where, you and I together ; will you ? ” 

“ I should like nothing better. When shall we start 2 ” 

Et omtera. I shall not tire you, my friend, with the 
particulars of some dozen similar conversations, every oc- 
casion of which for four days Madame de Palme evidently 
sought. There was on her part a constantly growing 
effort to leave aside all commonplace topics, and impart to 
our interviews a character of greater intimacy ; there was 
on mine an equal amount of obstinacy in confining them 
within the strictest limits of social jargon, and remaining 
resolutely on the ground of worldly futility. • 

I now come to the scene that was to bring this painful 
struggle to a close, and unfortunately prove all its vanity 
to me. 

Monsieur and Madame de Malouet were giving last 
night a grand farewell ball to their daughter, whose hus- 
band has been recalled to his post of duty, and the whole 
neighborhood within 'a' circuit of ten leagues had been 
summoned to the feast. Towards ten o’clock an immense 
crowd was overflowing the vast ground-floor of the chateau, 


PETITE C0MTE8SE. 


81 


in wliich the elegant dresses, the lights, and the flowers 
were mingled in dazzling confusion. As I was trying to 
make my way into the main drawing-room, I found my- 
self face to face with Madame de Malouet, who drew me 
slightly aside. 

Well ! my dear sir,” she said, “ I do not like the looks 
of thino:s.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! what is there new ? ” 

“ I don’t know exactly, but be on your guard. Ah ! 
mon Dieu ! I have remarkable confldence in you, sir ; 
you will not take advantage of her, will you ? ” 

Her voice was tender and her eyes moist. 

“ You ma5" rely upon me, madame ; — ^but I sincerely 
wish I had gone a week ago.” 

Eh ! mon Dieu ! who could have foreseen, such a 
thing ? . . . Hush ! there she comes ! ” 

I turned round and I saw Madame de Palme coming 
out of the parlor ; before her the throng opened with that 
timorous eagerness and that species of terror which the 
supreme elegance of one of society’s queens generally in- 
spires to our sex. For the first time, Madame de Palme 
appeared handsome to me ; the expression of her counte- 
nance was wholly novel to me, and a weird animation 
gleamed in her eyes and transfigured her features. 

“ Am I to your taste ? ” she said. 

I manifested by I know not what movement an assent, 
which was moreover but too evident to the keen eye 
of a woman. 

I was looking for you,” she added, to show you the 
conservatory : it’s fairy-like. Come ! ” 

She took my arm, and we started in the direction of the 
conservatory door which opened at the other end of the 
4 * 


82 


LED A8TBAT; OB, 


parlor, extending as far as the park, through the vines 
and the perfumes of hundreds of exotic plants, all the 
splendors of the feast. While we were admiring the 
effect of the girandoles that sparkled amid the luxuriant 
tropical flora like the bright constellations of another 
hemispliere, several gentlemen came to claim Madame de 
Palme’s hand for a waltz ; she refused them all, though 
I was sufficiently disinterested to join my entreaties to 
theirs. 

“ Our respective roles seem to me somewhat inter- 
verted,” she said : “ it is I who am detaining you, and 
you wish to get rid of me ! ” 

“ Heaven preserve me from such an idea ! but I am 
afraid lest you may deprive yourself , ou t of kindness to 
me, of a pleasure you are so fond of.” 

“ Ho ! I know very well that I seek you and you avoid 
me. It is rather absurd in the eyes of the world, but I 
care nothing for that. For this one evening at least, I 
mean to amuse myself as I like. I forbid you to disturb 
my happiness. I am really very happy. I have every- 
thing I require — beautiful flowers, excellent music around 
me, and a friend at my side. Only — and that’s a dark 
spot on my blue sky — I am much more certain of the 
music and the flowers than I am of the friend.” 

“ You are entirely wrong.” 

“ Explain your conduct, then, once for all. Why will 
you never talk seriously with me ? Why do you obsti- 
nately refuse to tell me one single word that savors of con- 
fldence, of intimacy — of friendship, in a word ? ” 

“ Please reflect for a minute, madame : where would 
that lead us to ? ” 

“What is tliat to you? That would lead us where it 


PETITE G0MTES8E 


83 


would. It is singular that you should be more anxious 
about it than I am.” 

“ Come, what would you think of me if I ventured to 
speak of love to you ? ” 

I don’t ask you to make love to me ! ” she said sharply. 

I know it, madame ; and yet it is the inevitable turn 
my language would take if it ceased for a moment to be 
frivolous and commonplace. NoWj admit that there is 
one man in the world who could not speak of love to you 
without incurring your contempt, and that I am that very 
man. I cannot say that I am very much pleased with 
having placed myself in such a position ; but after all, it 
is so, and I cannot forget it.” 

“ That is showing a great deal of judgment.” 

“ That is showing a great deal of courage.” 

She shook lier head with an air of doubt, and resumed 
after a moment of silence : 

“ Do you know that you have just spoken to me as if I 
were what is called a ^ fast ’ woman ? ” 

Oh ! Madame ! ” 

“ Of course, you think that I can never attribute to a 
man who pays his addresses to me any but improper in- 
tentions. If it were so, I would deserve being called a 
‘fast ’ woman, and I do not. I know you don’t believe it, 
but it is the pure truth, as there is a God. . . . yes, as 
there is a God ! — God knows me, and I pray to Him 
much oftener than is thought. He has kept me from 
doing harm thus far, and I hope He will keep me from 
it forever ; but it is a thing of which He has not the sole 
control — ” 

She stopped for a moment, and then added in a firm 
tone ; 


84 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


“ You can do much towards it.” 

“ I, raadame ? ” 

“ I have allowed you to take, I know not how — I really 
do not know how ! — a great influence over my destiny. 
Will you be willing to use it ? That is the question.” 

“And in what capacity could I do so, pray, inadame? ” 
I said slowly and in a tone of cold reserve. 

“ Ah ! ” she exclaimed, in a hoarse and energetic ac- 
cent, “ how can you ask me that ? It is too hard ! you 
liumiliate me too much ! ” 

She left my arm and returned abruptly into the parlor. 
I remained for some time uncertain as to what course to 
pursue. I thought first of following Madame de Palme 
and explaining to her that she was mistaken — which was 
true — as to the interrogative answer which had offended 
her. She had applied that answer to some thought that 
pervaded her mind, which I did not understand, or at 
least which her words had revealed to me much less 
clearly than she imagined ; but after thinking over it, I 
shrank from the new and formidable explanation which 
such a course must inevitably bring about. 

I left the conservatory, and walked into the garden 
to escape the hum of the ball-room, which importuned my 
ears. The night was cold but beautiful. With my heart 
still filled with the bitterness of this scene, I wandered 
instinctively beyond the luminous zone projected around 
the chateau through the apertures of the resplendent win- 
dows. I walked rapidly towards a double row of spruce- 
trees, crossed by a rustic bridge thrown over a small brook 
which divided the garden from the park, and where the 
shade was more dense. I had just reached this sombre 
spot, when a hand was laid on my arm and stopped me ; 


PETITE C0MTE88E. 


85 


at the same time a short and troubled voice, which I could 
not mistake, said : 

“ I must speak to 3 ^ou ! ” 

“ Madame ! for mercy’s sake ! in the name of Heaven ! 
what are you doing ? you will ruin your reputation ! Do 
return to the house ! Come, come, let me escort you 
back!” 

I attempted to seize her arm, but she eluded my grasp. 

“ I want to speak to you. ... I have decided to do 
so. . . . O mon Dieu ! how awkwardly I do go about 
it, don’t I? You must believe me more than ever a 
miserable creature 1 and yet there is nothing in it, not a 
thing ; it’s the truth, the pure truth, mon Dieu ! You are 
the first man for whose sake I have forgotten ... all 
that I am now forgetting ! . . . Yes, the first I Hever 
has any other man heard from my lips a single word of 
tenderness, never ! And you do not believe me ! ” 

I took both her hands in mine : 

“ I believe you, I swear it ... . I swear that I esteem 
you . . . that I respect you as a beloved daughter . . . 
But listen to me ; ]3ray, listen ! do not brave openly this 
pitiless world . . . return to the ball-room. . . . I’ll join 
you there soon, I promise you. ... But in the name of 
Heaven, do not compromise your fair fame 1 ” 

The poor child melted into tears, and I felt that she 
was staggering ; I supported her and helped her to a seat 
on a bench close by. I remained standing before her, hold- 
in^r one of her hands. The darkness was intense around 
us ; I gazed into space, and I listened, in a state of vague 
stupor, to the clear and regular murmur of the brook 
fiowing under the spruce-trees, to the convulsive sobS 
that swelled the unhappy woman’s bosom, and to the 


86 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


odious sounds of revelry whicli the orchestra sent us at 
intervals from afar. It was one of those moments that 
can never be forgotten. 

She succeeded in mastering her grief at last, and 
seemed, after this explosion, to recover all her firmness. 

“ Monsieur,” she said, rising and withdrawing her hand, 
“ have no fears about my reputation. The world is ac- 
customed to my follies. However, I have taken care that 
the present one shall not be noticed. Besides, I would 
not care if it was. You are the only man whose esteem 
I have ever desired, and, unfortunately the only one also 
whose contempt I have incurred. . . . That is most 
cruel ! . . . and yet something must tell you that I do 
not deserve it.” 

“ Madame 1 ” 

“ Listen to me ! and may God convince you. This is a 
solemn hour in my existence. Since the first glance you 
ever cast upon me, sir, — on that day when I went up to 
you while you were sketching the old church, — since that 
first glance, I belong to you. I have never loved, I shall 
never love any man but you. Will you take me for your 
wife ? I am worthy of it. ... 1 swear it to you in the pres- 
ence of that Heaven which is looking down upon ns ! ” 

“ Hear madame, . . . dear child, . . . your kindness . . . 
your affection move me to the depths of my soul; in 
mercy, be more calm ; let me retain a gleam of reason ! ” 
Ah ! if your heart speaks, listen to it, sir ! It is not 
with reason that I can be judged ! Alas ! I feel it ! you 
still doubt me, you still doubt my past life. ... O 
Heavens ! that opinion of the world which I have always 
scorned, how it is killing me now ! ” 

“ Ho, madame, you are mistaken ; but what could I 


PETITE C0MTES8E. 


87 


offer you in exchange for all you wish to sacrifice for my 
sake . . . for the habits, the tastes, the pleasures of your 
whole life ? ” 

‘‘But that life inspires me with horror! You think 
that I would regret it ? You think that some day I may 
again become the woman I have been, the madcap you 
have known ? . . . You think so 1 And how can I help 
your believing it ? And yet I know very well that I 
would never cause you that sorrow, nor any other. . . . 
Never ! I have discovered in your eyes a new world 1 did 
not know, — a more dignified, more lofty world, of which I 
had never conceived the idea . . . and outside of which 
I can no longer live. . . . Ah ! you must certainly feel 
that I am telling you the truth 1 ” 

“ Yes, madame, you are telling me the truth, . . . the 
truth of the hour . . . of a moment of fever and excite- 
ment ; but this new world, which appears dimly to you 
now, — this ideal world in which you desire to seek an 
eternal refuge against mere transient evils — would never 
keep all it seems to promise. Disappointment, regret, 
misery await you within it . . . . and do not await you 
alone. I know not if there be a man gifted with a suf- 
ficiently noble mind, with a sufficiently lofty soul to make 
you love the new existence of which you are dreaming, 
to preserve in the reality the almost divine character 
which your imagination imparts to it; but I do know 
that such a task, sweet as it might be, is beyond my 
strength ; I would be insane, I would be a wretch, if I 
were to accept it.” 

“ Is that your final decision ? Connot reflection alter 
it ill any way ? ” 

“ 111 no way.” 


88 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


“ Farewell then, sir. , . . Ah ! unhappy woman that 
I am ! . . . Farewell ! . . .” 

She grasped my hand, which she wrung convulsively, 
and then left me. 

After she had disappeared, I sat down on the bench, 
upon which she had been seated. There, my poor Paul, 
my whole strength gave way. I hid my head in. my 
hands and I wept like a child. — Thank God, she did not 
return ! 

I had at last to gather all my courage in order to ap- 
pear once more and for a moment in the ball-room. 
There was nothing to indicate that my absence had been 
noticed, or unfavorably commented upon. Madame de 
Palme was dancing and displayiiig a degree of gayety 
amounting almost to delirium. Soon after, supper was 
announced, and I availed myself of the general commo- 
tion attending that incident, to retire to my room. 

Early this morning, I requested a private inteiwiew of 
Madame de Malouet. It appeared to me that my entire 
confidence was due to her. She heard me with profound 
sadness, but without manifesting any surprise. 

I had guessed,” she told me, “ something of the kind. 
... 1 did not sleep all night. I believe that you have 

done your duty as a wise man and as an iionest man. 
Yes, you have. Still, it seems very hard. Society life 
is detestable in this, that it creates factitious characters 
and passions, unexpected situations, subtle shades, which 
complicate strangely the practice of duty, and obscure the 
straight path which ought to be always simple and easy to 
discover. — And now you wish to leave, I suppose ? ” 

“ Certainly, madame.” 

“ Very well ; but you had better stay two or three days 


“ZJ. PETITE G0MTE88E. 


89 . 


longer. Yon will thus remove from your departure the 
semblance of flight which, after what may have been ob- 
served, might prove somewhat ridiculous and perhaps 
damaging. It is a sacrifice I ask of you. To-day, we are 
all to dine at Madame de Breuilly’s : I’ll undertake to 
excuse you. In this manner, this day at least will rest 
lightly upon you. To-morrow, we’ll act for the best. 
Day after to-morrow, you can leave.” 

I accepted these terms. I shall soon see you again, 
then, Paul. But in the meantime, how lonely and for- 
saken I feel ! How I long to grasp your firm and loyal 
hand; to hear your voice tell me: “You have done 
right ! ” 


YIII. 

Eozel, October 10th. 

Heee I am back in my cell, my friend. Why did I 
ever leave it ? Hever has a man felt a more troubled 
heartbeat between these cold walls, than my own wretched 
heart! Ah! I will not curse our poor human reason, 
our wisdom, our philosophy ; are they not, after all, the 
noblest and best conquests of our nature. But, great 
Heaven ! how little they amount to ! What unreliable 
guides, and what feeble supports ! 

Listen to a sad story. — Yesterday, thanks to Madame 
de Malouet, I remained alone at the chateau the whole 
day and the whole evening. I was therefore as much at 
peace as it was possible for me to be. Towards midnight 


90 


LED ASTRAY; OB, 


I heard the carriages returning, and soon after all noise 
ceased. It was, I think, about three o’clock in the morn- 
ing when I w'as aroused from the species of torpor that 
has stood me in lieu of sleep for the past few nights, by 
the sound, quite close to me, of a door cautiously opened 
or closed in the yard. I know not by what strange and 
sudden connection of ideas so simple an incident attracted 
my attention and disturbed my mind. I left abruptly the 
arm-chair in which I had been slumbering, and I went up 
to a window. I distinctly saw a man moving off with 
discreet steps in the direction of the avenue. I had no 
difficulty in satisfying myself that the door through which 
he had just passed, was that which gives access to the 
wing of the chateau contiguous to the library. This part 
of the house contains several rooms devoted to transient 
guests ; I knew that they were all vacant at this moment, 
— unless Madame de Palme, as it often happened, had 
occupied for the night the lodging that was always set 
apart for her in that wing. 

You may guess what strange thought floated across 
my brain. I repelled it at first as sheer madness ; but 
remembering, within the field of my somewhat extended 
experience, certain facts that lent probability to that 
thought, I entertained it with a sort of cynical irony, 
and I was almost ready to admit it, as an odious but de- 
cisive denouement. The early dawn found me struggling 
still in this mental anguish, calling up my recollections, 
examining in a childish way the most minute circumstan- 
ces that might tend to confirm or to banish my suspicions. 
Excess of fatigue, brought on at last two hours of pros- 
tration, from which I emerged with a better command of 
my reason. It was impossible for me to doubt the reality 


PETITE G0MTES8E: 


91 


of the apparition that had struck my eyes during the 
night ; but it appeared to me that I had put upon it a 
hasty and senseless construction, and that my ailing spirit 
had attributed to it the least likely explanation. 

I went down at half past ten o’clock as usual. Madame 
de Palme was in the parlor ; she must therefore have 
spent the night at the chateau. Nevertheless, a mere 
glance at her was enough to remove from my mind the 
very shadow of suspicion. She was talking quietly in the 
centre of a group. She greeted me with her usual gentle 
smile. I felt relieved of an immense weight. I was es- 
caping a torment of such painful and bitter nature, that 
the positive impression of my previous grief, freed from 
the disgraceful complications with which I had for a mo- 
ment thought it aggravated, appeared almost pleasant. 
Never had my heart rendered to this woman a more ten- 
der and more sincere homage. I was grateful to her from 
the bottom of my soul, for having restored purity to my 
wound and to my memory. 

The afternoon was to be devoted to a horseback ride 
along the sea-shore. In the effusion of heart that suc- 
ceeded the anxieties of the night, I yielded quite readily 
to the entreaties of Monsieur de Malouet, who, arguing 
on my approaching departure, was urging me to accom- 
pany him on this excursion. It was about two o’clock 
when our cavalcade, recruited as usual among a few young 
men of the neighborhood, marched out of the chateau’s 
gate. We had been travelling merrily for a few min- 
utes, and I was not the least merry of the band, when 
Madame de Palme suddenly came to take place by my 
side. 

“ I am about to be guilty of a base deed,” she said ; 


92 led astray J OB, 

‘‘and yet, I had so strongly resolved . . . but I am 
choking ! ” 

I looked at her; the haggard expression of her eyes 
and of her features suddenly struck me with terror. 

“ Well ! ” she w.ent on in a voice of which I shall never 
forget the tone, “ you have willed it so ! ... I am a 
disgraced woman ! ” 

She urged at once her horse forward, leaving me 
crushed by this blow, the more terrible that I had wholly 
ceased to fear it, and that it struck me with a keen cru- 
elty I had not even foreseen. There had indeed been in 
the unhappy woman’s voice no trace whatever of insolent 
swaggering ; it was the very voice of despair, a cry of 
heart-rending grief and timid reproach ; — everything, that 
might add in my soul to the torture of a stained and shat- 
tered love, the disorder of a profound pity and an uneasy 
conscience. 

When I had found strength enough to look around me 
I was surprised at my own blindness. Among Madame 
de Palme’s most assiduous courtiers, figures one Monsieur 
de Mauterne, whose antipathy for me, though confined 
within the limits of good-breeding, often seemed to me to 
assume an almost hostile tinge. Monsieur de Mauterne 
is a man of my age, tall, blonde, with a figure more 
robust than elegant, and features regularly handsome, 
but stiff and without expression. He possesses social ac- 
complishments, much audacity, and no wit. His bearing 
and his conduct during the course of that fatal ride 
would have informed me from the start, if I had only 
thought of observing them, that he believed he had the 
right of fearing henceforth no rivalry near Madame de 
Palme. He assumed frankly the leading part in all the 


^LA PETITE C0MTE8SE. 


93 


scenes in which she participated ; he overwhelmed her 
with attentions, affected to speak to her in a whisper, 
and neglected nothing, in a word, to initiate the public 
into the secret of liis success. In that respect, he lost 
his trouble ; the world, after exhausting its wickedness 
upon imaginary errors, seems thus far to refuse the evi- 
dence wdiich vainly stares it in the face. 

As to myself, my friend, it would he difficult to de- 
pict the chaos of emotions and thoughts that tossed and 
tumbled in my brain. The feeling that swayed me per- 
haps with the greatest violence, was that of hatred 
against that man, — a feeling of implacable hatred, of 
eternal hatred. _ I was, however, more shocked and more 
distressed than surprised at the choice that haxl been made 
of him ; he had happened in the way, and he had been 
taken up with a sort of indifference and of scorn, as one 
picks up any weapon to commit suicide with, wdieii once 
the suicide has been resolved upon. As to my feelings 
towards her, you may guess them ; not a shadow of anger, 
frightful sadness, tender compassion, vague remorse, 
and above all, passionate, furious regret ! I realized at 
last how much I had loved her! I could scarcely under- 
stand the motives which, two days before, had appeared 
to me so powerful, so imperative, and which had seemed 
to raise between her and me an insurmountable barrier. 
All these obstacles of the past disappeared before the 
abyss of the present which seemed the only real one, the 
only one that w'as impossible to overcome, the only one 
that ever existed. Strange fact ! I could see clearly, as 
clearly as I saw the sun, that the impossible, the irrepara- 
ble was there, and I could not accept it, I could not sub- 
mit to it. I could see that woman lost to me as irrevoca- 


04 : 


LED A8TEAT; OB, 


bly as if the grave had closed over her coffin, and I could 
not give her up! Mj mind wandered through insane 
projects and resolutions ; I thought of picking a quarrel 
with Monsieur de Mauterne, and compelling liim to fight 
on the spot. I felt that I would have crushed him 1 . . ^ 
Then I thought of fleeing with her, of marrying her, of 
taking her with her shame, after having refused her pure ! 
. . . Yes, this madness tempted me ! To remove it from 
my thoughts, I had to repeat a hundred times to myself 
that mutual disgust and despair were the only fruits that 
could ever be expected of that union of a dishonored hand 
with a bloody hand. Ah ! Paul, how much I did suffer I 

Madame de Palme manifested during the entire 
coui’se of our ride a feverish excitement which betrayed 
itself more particularly in reckless feats of horsemanship. 
I heard at intervals her loud bursts of merriment, that 
sounded to my ears like heart-rending wails. Once again 
she spoke to me as she was going by : 

“ I inspire you with horror, don’t I ? ” she said. 

I shook my head and dropped my eyes without reply- 
ing. 

We returned to the chateau at about four oclock. I 
was making my way to my room when a confused tumult 
of voices, shrieks, and hurried steps in the vestibule 
chilled my heart. I went down again in all haste, and I 
was informed that Madame de Palme had just been taken 
with a violent nervous fit. She had been carried into 
the parlor. I recognized through the door the grave and 
gentle voice of Madame de Malouet, to which was mingled 
I know not what moan, like that of a sick child. I ran 
away. 

I was resolved to leave this fatal spot without further 


*^LA PETITE G0MTE8SE:' * 95 

delay. ITothing could have induced me to remain a mo- 
ment longer. Your letter, which had been handed to me 
on our return, served me as a likely pretext for my sudden 
departure. The friendship that binds us is well-known 
here. I said you needed me within twentj^-four hours. 
I had taken care, at all hazards, to send three days before 
to the nearest town for a carriage and horses. In a few 
minutes my preparations were made ; I gave orders to 
the driver to start ahead and wait for me at the extremity 
of the avenue while I was takiiig my leave. Monsieur 
de Malouet seemed to have no suspicion of the truth ; 
the worthy old gentleman appeared quite moved as lie 
received my thanks, and really manifested for me a sin- 
gular affection out of all proportion to the brief duration 
of our acquaintance. I had to be scarcely less thankful 
to M. de Breuilly. I regret now the caricature I once 
gave you as the portrait of that noble heart. 

Madame de Malouet insisted upon accompanying me 
down the avenue a few steps farther than her husband. 
I felt her arm trembling under mine while she was in- 
trusting me with a few trifling errands for Paris. At the 
moment of parting, and as I was pressing her hand with 
effusion, she detained me gently : 

“Well! sir,” she said in a feeble voice, “ God did not 
bless our wisdom.” 

. ‘‘ Our hearts are open to him, madame ; He must have 
read our sincerity. He sees how much I am suffering, 
and I humbly hope he may forgive me ! ” 

“ Do not doubt it— do not doubt it,” she replied in a 
broken voice ; but she ? she !— ah ! poor child ! ” 

Have pity on her, madame. Do not forsake her. 
Farewell ! ” 


96 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


I left her hastily, and I started, but instead of going 
direct to the town, 1 had myself driven along the* Abbey 
road as far as tlie top of the hill-s ; I requested the coach- 
man to go on alone to the towm, and to return for me to- 
morrow morning early at the same place. I cannot ex- 
plain to you, my dear friend, the singular and irresistible 
fancy that took me to spend one last night in that solitude 
wdiere I spent such quick and happy days, and so recently, 
moil Dieu ! ” 

Here I am, then, back in my cell. How cold, dark, and 
gloomy it seems! The sky also has gone into mourning-. 
Since my arrival in this neighborhood, and in spite of the 
season, I had seennqiie but summer days and nights. To- 
night a cold autumnal storm has burst over the valley ; 
the wind howls among the ruins, blowing off fragments 
that fall heavily upon the ground. A driving rain is 
pattering against my window-panes. It seems to me as 
if it were raining tears 1 

Tears ! my heart is overflowing with them — and not a 
single one will rise to my eyes. And yet, I have prayed, 
I have long prayed to God — not, my friend to that un- 
tangible God whom we pursue in vain, beyond the stars 
and the worlds, but the only God truly kind and helpful 
to suffering humanity, — the God of my childhood, the 
God of that poor woman ! 

Ah! I wish to think only now of my approaching 
meeting with you, the day aftei* to-morrow, dear friend, 
and perhaps before this letter — 

Come, Paul ! If you can leave your mother, come, I 
beseech you, come to uphold me. God’s hand is upon me ! 

I was writing that interrupted line when, in the midst 


PETITE C0MTES8E. 


97 


of the confused noises of the tempest, I fancied I heard 
the sound of a voice, of a human groan. I rushed to 
my window ; I leaned outside to pierce the darkness, and 
I discovered lying upon the dark and drenched soil a 
vagrue form, something like a white bundle. At the same 
time, a more distinct moan rose up to me. A gleam of 
the terrible truth flashed through my brain like a keen 
blade. I groped through the darkness as far as the door 
of the mill ; near the tlireshold, stood a horse bearing a 
side-saddle. I ran madly around to the other side of the 
ruins, and within the inclosure situated beneath the win- 
dow of my cell, and which still retains some traces of 
the former cemetery of the monks, I found the unhappy 
creature. She was there, sitting on an old tomb-stone, as 
if overwhelmed, shivering in all her limbs under the 
chilling torrent of rain which a pitiless sky was pouring 
without interruption over her light party-dress. I seized 
her two hands, trying to raise her up. 

“ Ah ! unhappy child ! what have you done ! ’’ 

“Yes, most unhappy!” she murmured, in a voice as 
faint as a breath. 

“ But you are killing yourself.” 

“ So much the better — so much the better I ” 

“ You cannot remain there ! — Come I — ” 

I saw that she was unable to stand up alone. 

“ x\h ! Dieu hon I Dieu puissant ! what shall I do ? 
What’s to become of you now % What do you wish with 
me?” 

She made no reply. She was trembling, and her teeth 
were chattering. I lifted her up in my arms and I car- 
ried her in. The mind works fast in such moments. 
hTo conceivable means of removing her from this valley 
5 


98 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


where carriages cannot penetrate; nothing was hence- 
forth possible to save her honor ; I must only think of 
her life. I scaled rapidly the steps leading to my cell, 
and I laid her on a chair in front of the chimney in 
which I hastily kindled a fire ; then I woke up my hosts. 
I gave to the miller’s wife a vague and confused explana- 
tion. I know not how much of it she understood ; but 
she is a woman, she took pity and went on bestowing 
upon Madame de Palme such care as was in her power. 
Her husband started at once on horseback, carrying to 
Madame de Malouet the following note from me : 

“ Madame, — She is here, dying. In the name of the 
God of mercy, I beseech you, I implore yon — come to 
console, come to bless her who can no longer expect 
words of kindness and forgiveness from any one but you 
in this world. 

“ Pray tell Madame de Pontbrian whatever you think 
proper.” 

She was calling me. I returned to her side. I found 
her still seated before the fire. She had refused to be 
put into the bed that had been prepared for her. When 
she saw me — singular womanly preoccupation ! — her first 
thought was for the coarse peasant’s dress she had just 
exchanged for her own water-soaked and mud -stained 
garments. She laughed as she called my attention to it ; 
but her laughter soon turned into convulsions which I 
had much difficulty in quieting. 

I had placed myself close to her ; she could not get 
warm ; she had a consuming fever, her eyes glistened. I 


PETITE G0MTE88ET 99 

begged her to consent to take the absolute rest which was 
alone suitable to her condition. 

“ What is the use ? ’’ she replied. I am not ill. It is 
not the fever that is killing me, nor the cold, it is the 
thought that is burning me there ; ” — she touched her 
forehead — it is shame — it is your scorn and your hatred ; 
now, alas ! but too well deserved ! ” 

My heart overflowed then, Paul ; I told her every- 
thing ; my passion, my regrets, my remorse ! I covered 
with kisses her trembling hands, her cold forehead, her 
damp hair. I poured into her poor shattered soul all the 
tenderness, all the pity, all the adoration a man’s soul can 
contain ! She knew now that 1 loved her ; she could not 
doubt it ! 

She listened to me with rapture. “Now,” she said, 
“ now, I am no longer to be pitied. I have never been 
so happy in all my life. I did not deserve it — I have 
nothing further to wish — nothing further to hope — I shall 
not regret anything.” 

She fell ^into a slumber. Her parted lips are smiling a 
pure and placid smile ; but she is taken at intervals with 
terrible spasms, and her features are becoming terribly 
altered. I am watching her while writing these lines. 

/ 

Madame de Malouet has just arrived with her husband. 
I had judged her rightly! Her voice and her words 
were those of a mother. She had taken care to bring 
her physician. The patient is lying in a comfortable 
bed, surrounded by loving and attentive friends. I feel 
more easy, although she has just aw^akened with a fearful 
delirium. 

Madame de Pontbrian has positively refused to come 


100 led ASTRAY; OB, 

to her niece. I had judged her rightly too, the excellent 
Christian ! 

I have deemed it my duty not to set foot again in the 
cell which Madame de Malouet no longer leaves. The 
expression of M. de Malouet’s countenance terrifies me> 
and yet he assures me that the physician has not yet 
pronounced. 

The doctor has just come out ; I have spoken to him. 

“ It is pneumonia,” he told me, complicated with 
brain fever.” 

“ It is very serious, is it not ? ” 

« Very serious.” 

“ But is there any immediate danger?” 

I’ll tell you that to-night. Her condition is so acute 
that it cannot last long. Either the crisis must abate or 
nature must yield.” 

“ You have no hope, sir ? ” 

He looked up to heaven and went ofi. 

I know not what is going on within me, my friend — 
all these blows are striking me in such rapid succession. 
It is the lightning ! 

Five o’clock p.m. 

The old priest whom I liave often met at the chateau 
has been sent for in haste. He is a friend of Madame de 
Malouet, a simple old man, full of charity ; I dared not 
question him. I know not what is going on. I fear to 
hear, and yet my ear catches eagerly the least noises, 
the most insignificant sounds : a closing door, a rapid 
step on the stairs strike me dumb with terror. And yet — 
so quick ! it seems impossible ! 


PETITE GOMTESSE: 


101 


Paul, my friend — my brother ! where are yon ? — all is 
over ! 

An honr ago I saw the doctor and the priest coming 
down. M. de Malonet was following them. 

“ Go up,” he told me. “ Come, courage, sir. Be a 
man ! ” 

I walked into the cell; Madame de Malouet had re- 
mained alone there ; she was kneeling by the bedside 
and beckoned me to approach. I gazed upon her who 
was about to cease suffering. A few hours had been 
enough to stamp upon that lovely face all the ravages of 
death ; but life and thought still lingered in her eyes ; 
she recognized me at once. 

Monsieur,” she began ; then, after a pause : “ George, 
I have loved you much. Forgive my having embittered 
your life with the memory of this sad incident ! ” 

I fell on my knees ; I tried to speak, I could not ; my 
tears flowed hot and fast upon her hand already cold and 
inert as a piece of marble. 

‘‘ And you, too, raadame,” she added ; forgive me the 
trouble I have given you — the grief I am causing you 
now.” 

“ My child ! ” said the old lady, I bless you from the 
bottom of my heart.” 

Then there was a pause, in the midst of which I sud- 
denly heard a deep and broken breath — ah ! that supreme 
breath, that last sob of a deadly sorrow; God also has 
heard it, has received it ! 

He has heard it — He hears also my ardent, my weep- 
ing prayer ! I must believe that He does, my friend. 
Yes, that I may not yield at this moment to some temp- 
tation of despair, I must firmly believe in a God who 


102 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


loves us, who looks with compassionate eyes upon the an- 
guish of our feeble hearts — who will deign some day to 
tie again with His paternal hand the knots broken by 
cruel death ! — ah ! in presence of the lifeless remains of 
a beloved being, what heart so withered, what brain so 
blighted by doubt, as not to repel forever the odious 
thought that these sacred words : God, Justice, Love, Im- 
mortality, — are but vain syllables devoid of meaning ! 

Farewell, Paul. You know what there still remains 
for me to do. If you can come, I expect you ; if not, 
my fi'iend, expect me. Farewell ! 


IX. 

The Maequis db Malouet to M. Paul B , Pakis. 

Chateau de Malouet, October 20tli. 

Monsieue, 

It has become my imperative though painful duty to 
relate to you the facts which have brought about the 
crowning disaster of which you liave already been advised, 
by more rapid means and with sucli precautions as we 
were able to take ; a disaster that completely overwhelms 
our souls already so cruelly tried. As you are aware, sir, 
a few weeks, a few days had been sufficient to enable 
Madame de Malouet and myself to know and appreciate 
your friend, to conceive for him an eternal affection soon, 
alas ! to be changed into eternal regret. You are also 


PETITE C0MTE88E: 


103 


aware, I know, of all the sad circumstances that preceded 
and led to this sad catastrophe. 

Monsieur George’s conduct during the melancholy days 
that followed the death of Madame de Palme, the depth 
of feeling as well as the elevation of soul which he con- 
stantly manifested, had completely won our hearts over 
to him. I desired to send him back to you at once, sir ; 
I wished to get him away from this sorrowful spot, I 
wished to take him to you myself, since a painful preoc- 
cupation detained you in Paris; but he had imposed upon 
himself the duty of not forsaking so soon what was left of 
the unhappy woman. 

We had removed him to our house ; we were surround- 
ing him with attentions. He never left the chateau, 
except to go each day on a pious pilgrimage within a few 
steps. Still, his health was perceptibly failing. Day be- 
fore yesterday morning, Madame de Malouet pressed him 
to join Monsieur de Breuilly and myself in a horseback 
ride. He consented, though somewhat reluctantly. We 
started. On the way, he strove manfully to respond to 
the efforts we were making to draw him into conversation 
and rouse him from his prostration. I saw him smile for 
the first time in many hours, and I began to hope that 
time, the strength of his soul, the attentions of friendship, 
might restore some calm to his memory, when, at a turn 
in the road, a deplorable chance brought us face to face 
with Monsieur de Mauterne. 

This gentleman was on horseback ; two friends and two 
ladies made up his party. We were following the same 
direction, but his gait was much more rapid than ours ; 
he passed us, saluting as he did so, and I noticed, so far as 
I am concerned, nothing in his manner that could attract 


104 


LED ASTRAY; OR, 


attention. I was therefore much surprised to hear M. de 
Breuilly the next moment murmur between his teeth : 
“ That is an infamous trick ! ” Monsieur George, who, at 
the moment of meeting, had become pale and turned his 
head slightly away, looked sharply at Monsieur de 
Breuilly : 

“ What do you mean, sir ? What do you refer to ? ” 

“ I refer to the impertinence of that brainless fool ! ” 

I appealed energetically to Monsieur de Breuilly, re- 
proaching him with his quarrelsome disposition, and af- 
firming that there had been no trace of defiance either in 
the attitude or the features of Monsieur de Mauterne when 
he had passed by us. 

“ Come, my friend,” said Monsieur de Breuilly, your 
eyes must have been closed — or else you must have seen, 
as I saw myself, that the wretch giggled as he Idoked at 
our friend. I don’t know why you should wish the gen- 
tleman to suffer an insult which neithe]* you nor I would 
suffer!” 

These unlucky words had been scarce uttered, when 
Monsieur George started his horse at a gallop. 

“ Are you mad ? ” I said to Breuilly, who was trying to 
detain us ; “ and what means sucli an invention ? ” 

“My friend,” he replied, “it was necessary to divert 
that boy’s mind at any cost.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. I freed myself from him and 
dashed after M. George ; but, being better mounted than 
myself, he had already gained a considerable advance. I 
was still a hundred paces behind him wdien he overtook 
Monsieur de Mauterne, who had stopped on hearing him 
coming. It seemed to me that they were exchanging a 
few words, and almost at once I saw M. Geoi-ge’s whip 


“ZA PETITE COMTESSE: 


105 


lashing several times, and with a sort of fury, Monsieur 
de Mauterne’s face. We barely arrived in time. Monsieur 
de Breuilly and myself, to prevent that scene from assum- 
ing an odious character of brutality. 

A meeting having unfortunately become inevitable be- 
tween the parties, we took with us the two friends who 
accompanied Mauterne, Messieurs de Quiroy and Astley, 
the latter an Englishman. M. George had preceded us to 
the chateau. The choice of weapons belonged without any 
possible doubt to our adversary. Nevertheless, having 
noticed that his seconds seemed to hesitate with a sort of 
indifference, or perhaps of circumspection between swords 
and pistols, I thought that we might, with a little good 
management, influence their decisions in the direction least 
unfavorable to us. We 'went therefore. Monsieur de 
Breuilly and I, to consult M. George on the subject. He 
pronounced at once in favor of swords. 

‘‘But,” remarked M. de Breuilly, “you are a very good 
pistol-shot. I have seen you at work. Are you certain 
to be a better swordsman ? Do not deceive yourself ; this 
will be a mortal combat.” 

“I am satisfied of that,” he replied 'with a smile; 
“ but I am particularly anxious for swords, if at all possi- 
ble.” 

After the expression of so formal a wish, we could but 
esteem ourselves fortunate in obtaining the choice of that 
arm, and the meeting was settled for the next morning at 
nine o’clock. 

During the remainder of the day, M. George manifested 
an ease of mind, and even at intervals a certain gayety, at 
which we were quite surprised, and which Madame de 
Malouet, in particular, was at a loss to understand. My 
5 * 


106 led A8TBA7; OR, 

poor wife, of course, had been left in ignorance of these 
recent events. 

At ten o’clock he retired, and I could still see a light 
through his window two hours later. Impelled by my 
earnest affection and I know not what vague anxiety that 
was haunting me, I entered his room at about midnight ; 
I found him very calm ; he had been writing and was 
just sealing up a few envelopes. 

“ There ! ” he said, handing me the papers. “Now the 
worst is over, and I am going to sleep the sleep of the 
just.” 

I thought it best to offer him a few more technical sug- 
gestions on the handling of the weapon he was soon to use. 
He listened to me without much attention, and suddenly 
extending his arm : 

“ Feel my pulse,” he said. 

I did so, and ascertained that his calm and his cheerful- 
ness were neither affected nor feverish. 

“ In such a condition,” he added, “ if a man is killed it 
is because he is willing to be. Good-night, my dear sir ! ” 
Whereupon I left him. 

Yesterday morning, at half-past eight, we repaired, M. 
George, M. de Breuilly, and myself, to an unfrequented 
path situated about half-way between Mauterne and Ma- 
louet, and which had been selected for the duelling- 
ground. Our adversary arrived almost immediately after, 
accompanied by Messieurs de Quiroy and Astley. The 
nature of the insult admitted of no attempt at conciliation. 
We had therefore to proceed at once to the fight. 

Scarce had M. George placed himself in position, when 
we became convinced of his complete inexperience in the 
use of the sword. M. de Breuilly cast upon me a look of 


LA PETITE COMTESSE: 


107 


stupor. However, after the blades had been crossed, there 
was a semblance of fight and of defence ; but at the third 
pass, M. George fell pierced through the chest. 

I threw myself upon him ; he was already in the grasp 
of death. N evertheless he pressed my hand feebly, smiled 
once more, then gave vent, with his last breath, to his last 
thought, which was for you, sir : 

“ Tell Paul that I love him, that I forbid him seeking 
to avenge me, and that I die .... happy.” He expired. 

I shall not attempt, sir, to add anything to this narrative. 
It has already been too long and too painful to me ; but 
1 deemed this faithful and minute account due to you. 
I had reason to believe, besides, that your friendship 
would like to follow to the last instant that existence 
which was so justly dear to you. Now you know all, you 
have understood all, even what I have left unsaid. 

He lies in peace by her side. You will doubtless come, 
dear sir. We expect you. We shall mingle our tears 
over those two beloved beings, both kind and charming, 
both crushed by passion and seized by death with relent- 
less rapidity in the midst of the pleasantest scenes of life. 


THE END. 


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A. 


I 


THE SPHINX 




THE SPHINX; 


OR, 

“JULIA DE TRECffiUR.” 


I. 

All those who, like ourselves, knew Eaoul de Trecoeur 
during his early youth, believed that he was destined to 
great fame. ITe had received quite remarkable gifts from 
nature; there are left from him two or three sketches 
and a few hundred verses that promised a master ; but 
he was very rich, and had been very badly brought up : 
he soon gave himself up to dilettantism. A perfect 
stranger, like most men of his generation, to the senti- 
ment of duty, he permitted himself to be recklessly car- 
ried away by his instincts, which, fortunately for others, 
were more ardent than hurtful. Therefore was he gen- 
erally pitied when he died, in the dower of his age, for 
having loved and enjoyed immoderately everything that 
he thought pleasant. 

The poor fellow, they said, never did any harm but 
to himself; which, in point of fact, was not the exact 
truth. Trecoeur had married, at the age of twenty-dve, his 


112 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


consin Clotilde Andree de Pers, a modest and graceful 
persoji who had of the world nothing but its elegance. 
Madame de Trecoeur had lived with her husband in an 
atmosphere of unhealthy storms, where she felt out of 
place, and, as it were, degraded. He tormented her with 
his remorse almost as mucli as he did with his faults. 
He looked upon her, and justly, as an angel, and wept at 
her feet when he had betrayed her, lamenting that he 
was unworthy of her ; that he was the victim of his tem- 
perament, and that he had been born in a faithless age. 
He threatened once to kill himself in his wife’s boudoir 
if she did not forgive him ; she forgave him, of course. 
All this dramatic action disturbed Clotilde in her resigned 
existence. She would have preferred that her misery 
should have been more quiet and less declamatory. 

All the friends of her husband had been in love with 
her, and had built great hopes upon her forlorn condition ; 
but unfaithful husbands do not always make guilty wives. 
The reverse is rather more frequently the case, so little is 
this poor world submitted to the rules of logic. In short, 
Madame de Trecoeur, after her husband’s death, was left 
upon the breach, exhausted and broken down, but spot- 
less. 

Prom this melancholy union, a daughter had been 
born, named Julia, and whom her father, notwithstanding 
all Clotilde’s efforts of resistance, had spoilt to excess. 
Monsieur de Trecoeur’s idolatry for his daughter was well- 
known, and the world, with its habitual weakness of judg- 
ment, forgave him readily his scandalous existence in 
consideration of that merit, which is not always a great 
one. It is not, indeed, a very difficult matter to love one’s 
children; it is sufficient for that not to be a monster. 


JULIA BE TBEGCEUR: 


113 


The love that one has for them is not in itself a virtue : 
it is a passion which, like all others, may be good or bad, 
as one is its master or its slave. It may even be thought 
that there is no passion which may be more than this one, 
pregnant with good or with evil. 

Julia seemed splendidly gifted; but her ardent and 
precocious disposition had been developed, thanks to the 
paternal education, as in the primeval foi*est, wholly at 
random. She was small in person, dark and pale, lithe 
and slender, with large blue eyes full of fire, unruly 
black hair, and superbly arched eyebrows. Her habitual 
air was reserved and haughty ; nevertheless she laid 
aside, at home, these majestic appearances to frolic on 
the carpet. She played games of her own invention. 
She translated her history lessons into little dramas inter- 
spersed with speeches to the people, dialogues, music, and 
particularly chariot-races. In spite of her serious counte- 
nance, she could be very funny at times, and made cruel 
fun of those she did not like. 

She manifested for her father a passionate predilec- 
tion, singularly mitigated by the sentiments of tender 
pity which her mother’s unhappiness inspired in her 
youthful heart. She saw her weep often ; she would 
then throw herself upon the floor, curled up at her feet, 
and there remain for hours, motionless and dumb, looking 
at her with moist eyes, and drinking from time to time 
a tear from her cheek. She never asked her why she 
wept. She had apparently caught, as many children do, 
some echoes of the domestic woes. Doubtless her quick 
intellect appreciated her father’s wrong-doings ; but her 
father — that handsome gentleman, so witty, generous, and 
wild — she worshipped him ; she was proud to be his daugh- 


114 


TEE SPHINX; OB, 


ter; she palpitated with joy when he clasped her to his 
heart. She could neither judge him nor blame him: he 
was a superior being. She contented herself with pity- 
ing and consoling, as best she could, that gentle and 
charming creature who was her mother, and who suf- 
fered. 

Within the circle of Madame de Trecoeur’s acquaint- 
ances, Julia simply passed for a little plague. The dear 
madames^ as she called them, who formed the ornament 
of her mother’s Thursdays, related with bitterness to each 
other the scenes of comical imitation with which the child 
followed their entrance and their departure. The men con- 
sidered themselves fortunate when they did not carry off 
a bit of paper or silk on the back of their coats. All this 
amused Monsieur de Trecoeur extremely. When his 
daughter performed with half a dozen chairs some of those 
Olympian races that knocked every piano in the neighbor- 
hood out of tune : 

“Julia!” he would exclaim, “you don’t make noise 
enough. Smash a vase.” 

And a vase she did smash ; whereupon her father kissed 
her with enthusiasm. 

This method of education assumed a graver character 
as the child grew older. Her father’s affection became 
shaded with a species of gallantry. He took her with 
him to the Bois, to the races, to the theatre. She had 
not a fancy that he did not anticipate and gratify. At 
thirteen years of age, she had her horse, her groom, a car- 
riage bearing her monogram. Already ill, and having per- 
haps a presentiment of his death, the unfortunate man 
overwhelmed that beloved daughter with the tokens of 
his baleful affection. He was thus blunting all her tastes 


JULIA BE TREGOSUR 115 

by too precocious satiety, as if be bad intended to leave 
ber no taste save for tbe forbidden fruit. 

Julia wept over bim with furious transports, and pre- 
served for bis memory a fervid worship. Sbe bad a pri- 
vate room wbicb sbe filled with tbe portraits of ber 
father and with a thousand personal souvenirs, around 
which she kept up flowers. 

Madame de Trecoeur, like tbe greater number of young 
girls who marry their cousins, had married very young. 
Sbe was left a widow at twenty-eight, and ber mother, 
tbe Baroness de Pers, who was still living, and who was 
even of tbe liveliest, was not long in suggesting discreetly 
to her tbe propriety of a second marriage. After having 
exhausted tbe practical and, in fact, quite sensible reasons 
that seemed to urge that course, tbe baroness then came 
down to tbe sentimental reasons : 

“ In good faith, my poor child,” sbe said, “ you have 
not had, up to this time, your just share of happiness in 
this world. I would not speak ill of your husband, since 
he is dead ; but, entre nous^ he was a horrid brute. Mon 
Dieu I charming at times, I grant you, — since I have 
been caught myself, — ^like all worthless scamps ! but in 
fact, beastly, beastly ! Well, certainly, I shall not under- 
take to say that marriage is ever a state of perfect bliss ; 
nevertheless it is the best thing that has been imagined 
up this time, to enjoy life decently among respectable 
people. You are in the flower of your age — you are 
quite good-looking, quite — and, by the way, it will do you 
no harm to wear your skirts a little higher up behind, with 
a proper sort of bustle ; for you don’t even know what they 
wear now, my poor pet. Here, look ! It’s horrible, I 
know ; but what can we do ? we must not attract atten- 


116 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


tion. In short, what I meant to tell you is that you still 
have all that is necessary, and even more than is neces- 
sary, to fix a husband — if indeed there are any that can be 
fixed, which I hope is the case — otherwise, we should have 
to despair wholly of Providence, if it did not have some 
compensation in store for us after all our trials. It is al- 
ready a manifest sign of its kindness that you should have 
recovered your enibonjpoint, my darling ! Xiss your 
mother. Come, now, when is our pretty little woman 
going to be married? ” 

There was no maternal exaggeration whatever in the 
compliments which the baroness was addressing to 
Clotilde. All Paris looked upon her with the same eyes 
as her mother. She had never been so attractive as now, 
and she had always been infinitely so. Her person, re- 
posed in the peace of her mourning, had then the bright 
lustre of a fiue fruit, ripe and fresh. Her black eyes 
full of timid tenderness, her pure brow crowned with 
splendid and life-like braids, her shoulders of rosy 
marble, her particular grace of a young matron, at once 
handsome, loving, and chaste, — all that, joined to a spotless 
reputation and to sixty thousand francs a year, could not 
fail to bring forward more than one pretender. And in- 
deed they sprang up in legions. Reason, and public 
opinion itself, which had done full justice to her husband 
and to herself, were both urging her to a second wedding. 
Her own private feelings, whatever might be their nat- 
ural delicacy, did not seem likely to prove an obstacle, 
for there, was nothing in her heart that was not true. 
She had been faithful to her husband, she had shed 
sincere and bitter tears over that wretched companion of 
her youth ; but he had exhausted and worn out her afiec- 


JULIA BE TEEGCEUR. 


IIT 


tion, and, without ever joining her mother in her posthu- 
mous recriminations against -Monsieur de Trecoeur, she felt 
that she had no further duty to fulfil toward him but that 
of prayer. 

She had, however, been for many months a widow, and 
she still continued to . oppose to the solicitations of the 
baroness, a resistance of which the latter sought in vain 
to ascertain the mysterious cause. One day she fancied 
she had discovered it. 

“ Confess the truth,’’ she said to her ; “ you are afraid 
to cause some annoyance to Julia. Now, if that is so, my 
dear daughter, it is pure folly. You cannot have any 
serious scruple on that score. Julia will be very rich in 
her own right, and will have no need of your fortune. 
She will herself marry in three or four years (much pleas- 
ure do 1 wish her husband, by the way!) ; and see a little 
in what nice situation you will find yourself then 1 But, 
mon Dieu I are we never going to be be done with them 1 
After the father, here is the daughter now I Eh ! mon 
Dieu ! let her erect chapels with her father’s portraits and 
spurs as much as she likes — that’s her business ; I am 
certainly not the one to enter into competition with her. 
But she must at least allow us to live in peace I What 1 
You could not dispose of your pereon without her leave ! 
Then if you are her slave, my dear child, show me the 
door at once ! You could not do anything more agree- 
able to her, for she cannot bear the sight of me, your 
daughter ! And then, after all, in all candor, what pos- 
sible objection can she have to your getting married 
again? A step-father is not a step-mother ; it’s quite 
another thing. Eh ! mon Dieu 1 her step-father will be 
charming to her, — all men will be charming to her : I pre- 


118 


TEE SPHINX; OR, 


diet her that ; she may feel easy about it ! — Now, will yon 
admit that that it is the true cause of your hesitation ? ” 

“ I assure you that it is not, mother,” said Clotilde. 

“I assure you that it is, my daughter. Well, come; 
would you like me to speak to Julia, to try and reason 
with her ? — I would prefer giving her a good whipping ; 
however — ! ” 

“ Poor, dear mother,” rejoined Clotilde, “ must I then 
tell you everything ? ” 

She came to kneel down in front of the baroness. 

“ By all means, daughter ; tell me everything, but don’t 
make me cry, I beg of you ! Is what you have to tell 
very sad ? ” 

“ Not very gay.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! But no matter ; go on.” 

“ In the first place, mother, I must confess that I would 
personally feel no scruple in marrying again — ” 

“I should think not! That would be carrying it just 
a little too far ! ” 

“ As to Julia — whom I adore, who loves me sincerely, and 
who loves you very much too, whatever you may say — ” 
Satisfied of the contrary,” said the baroness. “ But no 
matter; proceed.” 

“ As to Julia, I have more confidence than you have in 
her good sense and in her good heart ; notwithstanding 
the exalted affection she has preserved for her father, I 
am sure that she would understand, that she would respect 
my determination, and that she would not love me one 
whit the less, especially if her step-father did not happen 
to be personally objectionable to her ; for you are aware 
of the extreme violence of her sympathies and of her 
antipathies — ” 


JULIA BE TBECCEUB. 


119 


“ I am aware of it ! ” said the baroness bitterly. “ Well 
you must give her a list of your gentlemen friends, the 
dear little thing, and she will pie.k out her own choice for 
you.” 

“ There is no need of that, good mother,” said Clotilde. 
“ The choice has already been made by the mainly in- 
terested party, and I am certain that it would not be dis- 
agreeable to Julia.” 

“ Well, then, my darling, everything is for the best.” 

Alas ! no. I am going to tell you something that 
covers me with confusion. Among all the men we 
know, the only one who — the only one I like, in fact, is 
also the only one who has never been in love with me.” 

“ He must be a savage, then ! he cannot but be a sav- 
age. But who is he ? ” 

“ I have told you, dear mother, the only one of our 
friends who is not in love with me — ” 

“ Bah ! who is that ? Your cousin Pierre % ” 

“ Ho, but you are not — ” 

“ Monsieur de Lucan ! ” exclaimed the baroness. “ It 
could not fail to be so ! The very flower of the flock ! Mon 
Dieu, my darling, how very similar our tastes are, both 
of us ! He is charming, your Lucan, he is charming. 
Kiss me, dear — don’t look any farther, don’t look any 
farther ; he is positively just the man for us.” 

“ But, mother, since he does not want me ! ” 

“ Good ! he does not want you now ! What nonsense ! 
what do you know about it ? Did you ask him ? Be- 
sides, it is impossible, my darling ; you were made for 
each other in all eternity. He is charming, distingue^ 
well-bred, rich, intelligent, everything, in a word — every- 
thing.” 


120 


TEE SPHINX; OR, 


Everything, mother, except in love with me.” 

The baroness exclaiming anew against such a very un- 
likely thing, Clotilde exposed to her eyes a series of facts 
and particulars which left no room for illusions. The dis- 
mayed mother was compelled to resign herself to the 
painful conviction that there really was in the world a 
man of sufficiently bad taste not to be in love with her 
daughter, and that this man unfortunately was Monsieur de 
Lucan. 

She returned slowly to her residence, meditating on the 
way upon that strange mystery the explanation of which, 
however, she was not long to await. 


II. 

Geokge-Eene de Lucan was an intimate friend of the 
Count Pierre de Moras, Clotilde’s cousin. They had 
been companions in boyhood, in youth, in travels, and 
even in battle; for, chance having led them to the United- 
States at the outbreak of the war of the rebellion, they 
had deemed it a favorable opportunity to receive the bap- 
tism of tire. Tlieir friendship had become still more 
sternly tempered in the midst of these dangers of warfare 
sustained fraternally far from their own country. That 
friendship had had, moreover, for a long time, a charac- 
ter of rare confidence, delicacy, and strength. They en- 
tertained the highest esteem for each other, and their 
mutual confidence was not misplaced. They, however. 


JULIA BE TRECCEUR: 


121 


bore no resemblance whatever to each other. Pierre de 
Moras was of tall stature, blonde as a Scandinavian, hand- 
some and strong as a lion, but as a good-natured lion. 
Lucan was dark, slender, elegant, and grave. There was 
in his cold and gentle accent, in his very bearing, a cer- 
tain grace mingled with authority, that was both imposing 
and charming. 

They were not any less dissimilar in a moral point of 
view: the former a jolly companion,, an absolute and 
settled skeptic, the careless possessor of a danseuse / the 
latter always agitated despite his outer calm, romantic, 
passionate, tormented with love and theology. Pierre de 
Moras, on their return from America, had presented Lucan 
to his cousin Clotilde, and from that moment there were 
at least two points upon which they agreed perfectly : 
profound esteem for Clotilde, and deep-seated antipathy 
for her husband. 

They appreciated, however, each in his own way. 
Monsieur de Trecoeur’s character and conduct. For the 
Count Pierre, Trecoeur was simply a mischievous being ; 
in Monsieur de Lucan’s eyes, he was a criminal. 

“ Why criminal ? ” Pierre said. “ Is it his fault if he 
was born with the flames of hell in the marrow of his 
bones ? I admit that I feel quite disposed to break his 
head when I see Clotilde’s eyes red ; but I would not feel 
any more angiy about it, than if I were crushing a ser- 
pent under my heel. Since it is his nature, the poor 
man can’t help it.” 

“ You inspire me with horror,” Lucan rejoined. “ That 
little system of yours would simply suppress all merit, all 
will, all liberty ; in a word, the whole moral world. ^If 
we are not the masters of our own passions, at least to a 
6 


122 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


great extent, and if, on the contrary, it is our passions 
that fatally control us ; if a man is necessarily good or, 
bad, honest or a knave, loyal or a traitor, at the mercy of 
his instincts, tell me, if you please, why you honor me 
with your esteem and your friendship ? I have no right 
to them any more than any one else, any more than Tre- 
coeur himself.” 

I beg your pardon, my friend,” said Pierre gravely ; 
“ in the vegetable world I prefer a rose to a thistle ; in 
the moral world, I prefer you to Ti'^coeur. You were 
born a gallant fellow : I reioice at it, and I make the 
best of it.” 

“Well, Gher,you are laboring under a complete 
mistake,” rejoined Lucan. “ I was born, on the contrary, 
with the most detestable instincts, with the germ of all 
vices.” 

“ Like Socrates ? ” 

“ Like Socrates, exactly. And if my father had not 
chastised me in time, if my mother had not been a saint, 
finally, if I had not myself placed, with the utmost 
energy, my will at the service of my conscience, I would 
be to-day, a faithless and lawless scoundrel.” 

“ But nothing proves that you will not turn out a 
scoundrel one of these days, my dear friends There is 
no one but may become a scoundrel at the proper time. 
Everything depends upon the extent and strength of the 
temptation. Whatever may be your instinct of honor 
and dignity, are you yourself quite sure never to meet 
with a temptation sufficiently powerful to overcome your 
principles ? Can you not conceive, for instance, some cir- 
cumstance in which you might love a woman enough to 
commit a crime ? ” 


JULIA BE TREGCEUR. 


123 


“ No,” said Lucan ; do you ? ” 

“ 1 1 — I deserve no credit. I have no passions. It is 
extremely mortifying, but I have none. I was born to be 
an exemplary man. You remember my childhood; I 
was a little model. Now I am a big model, that’s all the 
difference — and it does not cost me any effort whatever. 
Shall we go and see Clotilde ? ” 

“ Let us go ! ” 

And they went to Clotilde’s, very worthy herself of the 
friendship of these two excellent fellows. There they 
were received with marked consideration, even by Made- 
moiselle Julia, who seemed to feel, to a certain degree, 
the prestige of these superior natures. Both had, more- 
over, in their manners and their language an elegant 
correctness that apparently satisfied the child’s delicate 
taste and her artistic instincts. 

During the early period of her mourning, Julia’s dis- 
position had assumed a somewhat shy and sombre cast ; 
when her mother received visitors, she left the parlor 
abruptly, and went to lock herself up in her own room, 
not, however, without manifesting towards the indiscreet 
guests a haughty displeasure. Cousin Pierre and* his 
friend had alone the privilege of a kindly greeting ; she 
even deigned to leave her apartment and come and join 
them at her mother’s side when she knew that they were 
there. 

Clotilde had therefore good reasons to believe that her 
preference for Monsieur de Lucan would obtain her 
daughter’s approbation ; she unfortunately had better ones 
still to doubt that Monsieur de Lucan’s disposition corre- 
sponded with her own. Not only, indeed, had he always 
maintained towards her the terms of the most reserved 


124 


TEE SPHINX; OR, 


friendship, but, since she had been a widow, that reserve 
had become perceptibly aggravated. Lucan’s visits be- 
came fewer and briefer ; he even, seemed to take particu- 
lar care in avoiding all occasions of finding himself alone 
with Clotilde, as if he had penetrated her secret feelings, 
and had afi^ected to discourage them. Such were the 
sadly significant symptoms which Clotilde had communi- 
cated in confidence to her mother. 

On the very day when the baroness was receiving this 
unpleasant information at the residence of her daughter, 
a conversation was taking place upon the same subject 
between the Count de Moras and George de Lucan, in the 
latter’s apartment. They had taken together, during the 
forenoon, a ride through the Bois, and Lucan had shown 
himself even more silent than usual. At the moment of 
parting : 

A apropos, Pierre,” he said, “ I am tired of Paris ; 1 
am going to travel.” 

“ Going to travel ! Where on earth ? ” 

“ I am going to Sweden. I have always wished to see 
Sweden.” 

“ What a singular thing ! — Will you bo gone long ? ” 

“ Two or three months.” 

“ When do you expect to leave ? ” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ Alone ? ” 

“ Entirely so. I’ll see you again at the club, to-night, 
won’t I ? ” 

The strange reserve of this dialogue left upon the mind 
of Monsieur de Moras an impression of surprise and un- 
easiness. He was unable to withstand the feeling, and 
two hours later he returned to Lucan’s. As he went in, 


JULIA LE TEEGCEUEy 125 

preparations for travelling greeted liis eyes on all sides. 
Lucan was engaged writing in his study. 

“ Now, my dear fellow ! ” said the count to him, “ if I 
am impertinent, say so frankly and at once ; but this sud- 
den and hurried voyage doesn’t look like anything. — 
Seriously, what is the matter ? Are you going to tight 
a duel outside the frontier? ” 

Bah ! In tliat case I should take you with me ; you 
know that very well.” 

A woman, then ? ” 

Yes,” said Lucan dryly. 

“ Excuse my importunity, and good-by.” 

“ I have wounded your feelings, dear friend ? ” said 
Lucan, detaining him. 

Yes,” said the count, “ I certainly do not pretend 
to enter into your secrets ; but I do not absolutely un- 
derstand the tone of restraint, and almost of hostility, 
in which you are answering me on the subject of this 
journey. It is not, moreover, the first symptoms of that 
nature that strike and grieve me ; for some time past, 
I find you visibly embarrassed in your intercourse with 
me; it seems as though I were in your way and my 
friendship were a burden to you, and the cruel idea has 
occurred to my mind that this journey is merely a way of 
putting an end to it.” 

“Mon Dieu!” murmured Lucan. “ Well, then,” he 
went on with evident agitation in his voice, “ I must tell 
you the whole truth ; I hoped that you would have guessed 
it — it is so simple. — ^Your cousin Olotilde has now been a 
widow for nearly two years ; that, I believe, is the term 
consecrated by custom to the mourning of a husband. 
I am aware of your feelings towards her ; you may now 


126 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


marry her, and you will be perfectly right in doing s^. 
Nothing seems to me more just, more natural, more 
worthy of her and of yourself. I beg to assure you that 
my friendship for you shall remain faithful and entire, 
but I trust you will not object to my keeping away for a 
short time. That’s all.” 

Monsieur de Moras seemed to have infinite difiiculty 
in comprehending the meaning of this speech ; he remained 
for several seconds after Lucan had ceased to speak, with 
wondering countenance and fixed gaze, as if trying to find 
the solution of a riddle ; then rising abruptly and grasp- 
ing both Lucan’s hands : 

“ Ah ! that’s kind of you, that is ! ” he said with grave 
emotion. 

And after another cordial grasp, he added gaylj^ : 

“ But if you expect to stay in Sweden until I have 
married Clotilde, you may begin building and even plant- 
ing there, for I swear to you that you shall stay long 
enough for either purpose.” 

“ Is it possible that you do not love her ? ” said Lucan 
in a half whisper. 

“ I love her very much, on the contrary ; I appreciate 
her, I admire her ; but she is a sister to me, purely a sis- 
ter. The most delightful thing about it, onon cher^ is 
that it has always been my dream to have you and Clo- 
tilde marry ; only you seemed to me so cold, so little 
attentive, so rebellious, particularly lately. Mon Dieu ! 
how pale you are, George ! ” 

The final result of this conversation was that Monsieur 
de Lucan, instead of starting for Sweden, called a little 
later to see the Baroness de Pers, to whom he exposed his 
aspirations, and who thought herself, as she listened to him, 


JULIA DE TBEG(EUB: 


127 


in the midst of an enchanting dream. She had, however, 
beneath her frivolous manners too profound a sentiment 
of her own dignity and that of her daughter, to manifest 
in the presence of Monsieur de Lucan the joy that over- 
whelmed her. Whatever desire she might have felt of 
clasping immediately upon her heart this ideal son-in -law, 
she deferred that satisfaction and contented herself with 
expressing to him her personal sympathy. Appreciating, 
however. Monsieur de Lucan’s just impatience, she advised 
him to call that very evening upon Madame de Tre- 
cceur, of whose personal sentiments she was herself igno- 
rant, but who could not fail to meet his advances with the 
esteem and the consideration due to a man of his merit 
and standing. Being left alone, the baroness gave way 
to her feelings in a soliloquy mingled with tears ; she, 
however, purposely omitted to notify Clotilde, preferring 
with her maternal taste to leave her the whole enjoyment 
of that surprise. 

The heart of woman is an organ infinitely more deli- 
cate than ours. The constant exercise which they give it 
develops within it finer and subtler faculties than the dry 
masculine intellect can ever hope to possess ; that accounts 
for their presentiments, less rare and more certain than 
ours. It seems as though their sensibility, always strained 
and vibrating, might be warned by mysterious currents of 
divine instinct, and that it guesses even before it can un- 
derstand. Clotilde, when Monsieur de Lucan was an- 
nounced, was, as it were, struck by one of these secret 
electric thrills, and in spite of all the objections to the con- 
trary that beset her mind, she felt that she was loved, and 
that she was on the point of being told so. She sat down 
in her great arm-chair, drawing up with both hands the silk 


128 


TEE SPHINX; OB, 


of her dress, with the gesture of a bird that flaps its 
wings. Lucan’s visible agitation further enlightened and 
delighted her. In such men, armed with powerful but 
sternly restrained passions, accustomed to control their 
own feelings, intrepid and calm, agitation is either 
frightful or charming. 

After informing her — which was entirely useless — that 
his visit to her was one of unusual importance : 

Madame,” he added, “ the request I am about to ad- 
dress you demands, I know, a well-matured answer. I 
will therefore beg of you not to give that answer to-day, 
the more so that it would indeed be too painful to me to 
hear it from your own lips if it were not a favorable one.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! monsieur ! ” said Clotilde faintly. 

“ The baroness, your mother, madame, whom 1 had the 
honor of seeing during the day, was kind enough to hold 
out some encouragement to me, — in a measure — and to 
permit me to hope that you might entertain some esteem 
for me, or at least that you had no prejudice' against 
me. As to myself, madame, I — mon Dieu ! I love 
you, in a word, and I cannot imagine a greater happiness 
in the world than that which I would hold at your hands.. 
You have known me for a long time ; I have nothing to 
tell you concerning myself. And now, I shall wait.” 

She detained him with a sign of her hand, and tried 
to speak ; but her eyes filled with tears. She hid her 
face in her hands, and she murmured : 

Excuse me ! I have been so rarely happy ! I don’t 
know what it is ! ” 

Lucan got gently down upon his knees before her, 
and when their eyes met, their two hearts suddenly filled 
like two cups. 


JULIA DE TMEGCEUB. 


129 


“ Speak, my friend ! ” she resumed. “ Tell me again 
that yon love me. I was so far from thinking it 1 And 
why is it ? And since when ? ” 

He explained to her his mistake, his painful struggle 
between his love for her and his friendship for Pierre. 

“ Poor Pierre ! ” said Clotilde, “ what an excellent fel- 
low. But no, really ! ” 

Then he made her smile by telling her what mortal 
terror and apprehension had taken possession of his soul 
at the moment when he was asking her to decide upon 
his fate ; she had seemed to him, more than ever, at that 
moment, a lovely and sainted creature, and so much above 
him, that his pretension of being loved by her, of becom- 
ing her husband, had suddenly appeared to him as a pre- 
tension almost sacrilegious. 

O mon Dieu ! ” she said, “ what an opinion have 
you formed of me, then ? It’s frightful ! On the con- 
trary, I thought myself too simple, too commonplace for 
you ; I thought that you must be fond of romantic passions, 
of great adventures ; you have somewhat the appearance 
of it, and even the reputation ;^and I am so far from be- 
ing a woman of that kind ? ” 

Upon that slight invitation, he told her two words of his 
past life which had been full of trite excitement, and had 
afforded him nothing but disappointment and disgust. 
Never, however, befoi’e having met her, had the thought 
of marrying occurred to him ; in the matter of love as 
in the matter of friendship, he had always had the imag- 
ination taken up with a certain ideal, somewhat ro- 
mantic indeed, and he had feared never to find it in mar- 
riage. He might have looked for it elsewhere, in great 
adventures, as she said ; but he loved order and dignity 
6 * 


130 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


in life, and he had the misfortune of being nnable to live 
at war with his own conscience. Such had been his agi- 
tated youth. 

“ You ask me,” he went on with effusion, “ why I 
love you. I love you because you alone have succeeded 
in harmonizing within my heart two sentiments which 
had hitherto struggled for its mastery at the cost of fear- 
ful anguish : honor and passion. Never before knowing 
you had I yielded to one of these sentiments without being 
made vu^etched by the other. They always seemed irre- 
concilable to me. Never had I yielded to passion without 
remorse ; never had I resisted it without regret. Whether 
weak or strong, I have always been unhappy and tortured. 
You alone made me understand that I could love at once 
with all the ardor and all the dignity of my soul ; and I 
selected you because you are affectionate and you are sin- 
cere ; because you are handsome and you are pure ; because 
there are embodied in you both duty and rapture, love 
and respect, intoxication and peace. Such is the woman, 
such is the angel you are to me, Clotilde.” 

She listened to him half reclining, breathing in his 
words and manifesting in l;er eyes a sort of celestial 
surprise. 

But it seems — who has not experienced it? — that 
human happiness cannot touch certain heights without 
drawing the lightning upon itself. Clotilde in the midst 
of her ecstasy shuddered suddenly and started to her feet. 
She had just heard a smothered cry, followed by the dull 
sound of a falling body. She ran, opened the door, and 
in the centre of the adjoining room saw Julia stretched 
upon the floor. 

She supposed that the child at the moment of entering 


JULIA BE TREOCEUB: 


131 


the parlor had overheard some of their words, and that 
the thought of seeing her father’s place occupied by 
another, striking her thus without warning, had stirred to 
its very depths that passionate young soul. Clotilde fol- 
lowed her into her room, where she had her carried, and ex- 
pressed the wish of remaining alone with her. While 
lavishing upon her cares, caresses, and kisses, it was not 
without fearful anguish that she awaited her daughter’s 
first glance. That glance fell upon her at first with 
vague uncertainty, then with a sort of wild stupor. The 
child pushed her away gently ; she was trying to collect 
her ideas, and as the expression of her thought grew firm- 
er in her eyes, her mother could plainly read in them a 
violent strife of opposing feelings. 

I beg of you, I beseech you, my darling daughter,” 
murmured Clotilde, whose tears fell drop by drop upon 
the pale visage of the child. 

Suddenly Julia seized her by the neck, drew her down 
upon herself, and kissing her passionately : 

“ You have hurt me much” she said, “ oh ! very much 
more than you can imagine ; but I love you. I love you a 
great deal ; I shall, I must always, I assure you.” 

She burst into sobs, and both wept long, closely clasped 
to each other. 

In the meantime Monsieur de Lucan had deemed it 
advisable to send for the Baroness de Pers, whom he was 
entertaining in the parlor. The baroness on hearing 
what was going on had manifested more agitation than 
surprise. 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” she exclaimed, “ I expected it fully, my 
dear sir. I did not tell you anything about it, because we 
hadn’t got so far yet ; but I expected it fully. That child 


132 


TEE SPHINX; OE, 


will kill mj daughter. She will finish what her father 
has so well began ; for it is purely a miracle if my 
daughter, after all she has suffered, lias been able to recov- 
er as far as you see. I must leave them together. I am 
not going in there. O mon Dieu ! I am not going in 
there ! In the first place, I would be afraid of annoying 
my daughter, and besides that would be entirely out of 
my character.” 

“ How old is Mademoiselle Julia inquired Lucan, who 
retained under these painful circumstances his quiet cour- 
tesy. 

“ Why, she is almost fifteen, and I am not sorry for it, 
by the way, for, entre nous^ we may reasonably hope to 
get honestly rid of her within a year or two. Oh ! she 
will have no trouble in getting married, no trouble what- 
ever, you may be sure. In the first place she is rich, and 
then, after all, she is a pretty monster, there is no gain- 
saying that, and there is no lack of men who admire that 
style.” 

Clotilde joined them at last. Whatever might have 
been her inward emotion, she appeared calm, having noth- 
ing theatrical in her ways. She replied simply, in a low 
and gentle voice, to her mother’s feverish questions : she 
remained convinced that this misfortune would not have 
happened, if she could have herself informed Julia, with 
some precautions, of the event which chance had abruptly 
revealed to her. Addressing then a sad smile to Mon- 
sieur de Lucan : 

“These family difiiculties, sir,” she said to him, 
“ could not have formed a part of your anticipations, and 
I should deem it quite natural were they to lead to some 
modification of your plans.” 


JULIA DE TBEGCEUB: 


133 


An expressive anxiety became depicted npon Lucan’s 
features. “ If you ask me to restore you your freedom^” 
he said, I cannot but comply ; if it is your delicacy alone 
that has spoken, I beg to assure you that you are still 
dearer to me since I have seen you suffer on my account, 
and suffer with so much dignity.” 

She held out her hand, which he seized, bowing low at 
the same time. 

I shall love your daughter so much,” he said, “ that 
she will forgive me.” 

Yes, I hope so,” said Clotilde ; “ nevertheless she 
wishes to enter a convent for a few months, and I have 
consented.” 

Her voice trembled and her eyes became moist. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” she added ; “ I have no right as yet 
to make you participate to such an extent in my sorrows. 
May I beg of you to leave me alone with my mother ? ” 

Lucan murmured a few words of respect, and withdrew. 
It was quite true, as he had said, that Clotilde was dearer 
to hirn than ever. Nothing had inspired him with such 
a lofty idea of the moral worth of that woman as her atti- 
tude during that trying evening. Stricken in the midst 
of her flight of happiness, she had fallen without a cry, 
without a groan, striving to hide her wound ; she had 
manifested in his presence that exquisite modesty in suf- 
fering so rare among her sex. He was the more grateful 
to her for it, that he was deeply averse to those pathetic 
and turbulent demonstrations w^hich most women never 
fail to eagerly exhibit on every occasion, when they are 
indeed kind enough not to bring them about. 


134 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


III. 

MoNstEUK DE Lucan had been Clotilde’s husband for 
several months when the rumor spread among society 
that Mademoiselle de Trecoeur, formerly known as such 
an incarnate little devil, was about taking the veil in the 
convent of the Faubourg Saint Germain, to which she had 
withdrawn before her mother’s marriage. That rumor 
was well founded. Julia had endured at first with some 
difficulty the discipline and the observances to which the 
simple boarders of the establishment were themselves 
bound to submit ; then she had been gradually taken with 
a pious fervor, the excesses of which they had been com- 
pelled to moderate. She had begged her mother not to 
put an obstacle to the irresistible inclination which she 
felt for a religious life, and Clotilde had with difficulty 
obtained that she should adjourn her resolution until tho 
accomplishment of her sixteenth year. 

Madame de Lucan’s relations with her daughter since 
her marriage had been of a singular character. She 
came almost daily to visit her, and always received the 
liveliest manifestations of affection at her hands ; but on 
two points, and those the most sensitive, the young girl 
had remained inflexible : she had never consented either 
to return to the maternal roof, nor to see her mother’s 
husband. 

She had even remained for a long time without 
making the slightest allusion to Clotilde’s altered situa- 
tion, which she affected to ignore. One day, at last, 
feeling the intolerable torture of such a reserve, she 


“ JULIA BE TJREGCEUn: 


135 


made up her mind, and fixing her flashing eyes upon 
her mother : 

“ Well, are you happy at least? ” she said. 

“ How can I be,” said Clotilde, “ since you hate the 
man I love ? ” 

I hate no one,” replied Julia dryly. “ How is your 
husband ? ” 

From that moment she inquired regularly after 
Monsieur de Lucan in a tone of polite indifference ; 
but she never uttered without hesitation and evident 
discomfort the name of the man who had taken her 
father’s place. 

In the meantime she had reached her sixteenth year. 
Her mother’s promise had been formal. Julia was hence- 
forth free to follow her vocation, and she was preparing 
for it with an impatient ardor that edified the good 
ladies of the convent. Madame de Lucan expressing, 
one morning, in presence of her mother and her husband 
the anxiety that oppressed her heart during these last 
da3’'s of respite : 

As to me, my daughter,” said the baroness^, “ I must 
confess that I am urging with ail my wishes and prayers 
the moment which you seem to dread. The life you 
have been leading since your marriage has nothing 
human about it ; but what forms its principal torment, 
is the constant struggle which you have to sustain 
against that child’s obstinacy. Well, when she has be- 
come a nun, there will no longer be any struggle ; the 
situation will be clearer; and note that you will not' be 
in reality any more separated than you are now, since 
the house is not a cloister ; — I would just as lief it were, 
myself; but it is not. And then, why oppose a vocation 


136 


TEE SPHIEX; OB, 


which I really look upon as providential ? In the interest 
of the child herself, you should congratulate yourself 
upon the resolution she has taken; — I appeal to your 
husband to say if that is not so. Come, let me ask you, 
my dear sir, what could be ^pected of such an organi- 
zation, if she were once let loose upon the world ? Why! 
she would be a dangerous character for society ! You 
know what a head she has ! — a volcauo ! And pray ob- 
serve, my friend, that at tliis present moment she is a 
perfect odalisk. You have not seen her for some time ; 
you cannot imagine how she has developed. I, who enjoy 
the treat of seeing lier twice a week, I can positively 
assure you that she is a perfect odalisk, and, besides, 
divinely dressed. In fact, she is so ;well made! you 
might throw a window-curtain over her with a pitchfork, 
and she would look as if she were just coming out of 
Worth’s ! There, ask Pierre what he thinks about it, 
he, who has the honor of being admitted to her good 
graces!” 

Monsieur de Moras, who was coming in at that very 
moment, shared, indeed, with a very limited number 
of friends of the family, the privilege of accompanying 
Clotilde occasionally during her visits to Julia’s convent. 

“ Well, my good Pierre,” resumed the baroness, we 
were speaking of Julia, and I was telling m}’^ son-in-law 
that it was really quite fortunate that she was willing to 
become a saint, because otherwise she would certainly 
set Paris on fire ! ” 

“ Because ? ” asked the count. 

“ Because she is beautiful as Sin ! ” 

“ Undoubtedly she is quite good-looking,” said the 
count somewhat coldly. 


JULIA BE TBEGCEUE. 


137 


The baroness having gone out on some errands with 
Clotilde, Monsieur de Moras remained alone with Lucan. 

“ It really seems to me,” he said to the latter, that 
our poor Julia is being very harshly treated.” 

“ In what way ? ” * 

Her grandmother speaks of her as of a perverse 
creature ! And what fault do they find with her after 
all ? Her worship for her father’s memory ! It is exces- 
sive, I grant ; but filial piety, even when exaggerated, 
is not a vice, that I know of. Her sentiments are ex- 
alted ; what does it matter if they are generous ? Is 
that a reason why she should be devoted to the infernal 
divinities and thrust out of the way to be forgotten ? ” 

‘ But you are very strange, my friend, I assure you,” 
said Lucan. “ Wliat is the matter with you 1 whom do 
you mean to blame ? You are certainly aware that 
Julia proposes taking the veil wholly of her own accord ; 
that her mother is distressed about it, and that she has 
spared no effort to dissuade her from that step. As to 
myself, I have no reason whatever to be fond of her; 
she has caused and is still causing me much grief ; but 
you know well enough that I have ever been ready to 
greet her as my daughter, if she had deigned to return 
to us ... ” 

“ Oh ! I accuse neither her mother nor yourself, of 
course ; it is the baroness who irritates me ; she is unnat- 
ural ! Julia is her grandchild after all, and she rejoices, 
— she positively rejoices — at the prospect of seeing her 
a nun ! ” 

“ Ma foi, I declare to you that I am not far from 
rejoicing too. The situation is too painful for Clotilde ; 


138 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


it must be brought to an end ; and as I see no other 
possible solution — ” 

But I beg your pardon ; there might be another.” 

“ And which ? ” 

“ She might marry.” 

How likely ! and marry— whom pray?” 

The count approached nearer to Lucan, looked him 
straight in the face, and smiling with some embarrass- 
ment : 

“ Me ! ” he said. 

“ Repeat that ! ” said Lucan. 

“ Mon cher^'^ rejoined the count, “you see that I am as 
red as a peony ; spare me. I have wished for a long time 
to broach that delicate question to you, but my courage 
has failed me ; since I have found it, at last, don’t 
deprive me of it.” 

“ My dear friend,” said Lucan, “ allow me to recover 
a little first, for I am falling from the clouds. What ! 
you are in love with Julia ? ” 

“ To an extraordinary degree, my friend.” 

“ Ho ! there is something under that ; you have dis- 
covered this means of drawing us together, and you 
wish to sacrifice yourself for the peace of the family.” 

“ I swear to you that I am not thinking in the least 
of the peace of the family ; I am thinking wholly of 
my own, which is very much disturbed, for I love that 
child with an energy of feeling that I never knew be- 
fore. If I don’t marry her, I shall never console njyself 
for the rest of my life.” 

“ To that extent ? ” said Lucan, dumbfounded. 

“ It is a terrible thing, mon cher^^ rejoined Monsieur 


JULIA DE TBEGCEUB: 


139 


de Moras. “ I am absolutely in love ; when she looks at 
me, when I touch her hand, when her dress rustles 
against me, I feel, as it were, a philter running though 
my veins. I had heard of emotions of that kind, but 
I had never felt them. I must confess that they delight 
me ; but at the same time they distress me, for I cannot 
conceal the fact to myself that there are a thousand 
chances against one that my passion will not be recipro- 
cated, and it really seems as though my heart should 
wear mourning for it as long as it shall beat.” 

“ What an adventure ! ” said Lucan, who had recovered 
all his gravity. “ That is a very serious matter ; very 
annoying . . . . ” 

He walked a few steps about the parlor, absorbed in 
thoughts that seemed of a rather sombre character. 

“ Is Julia aware of your sentiments ? ” he said sud- 
denly. 

“ Most certainly not ; I would not have taken the 
liberty of informing her of them without first speaking 
to you. Will you be kind enough to act as my ambassa- 
dor to her mother ? ” 

“ Why ? . . . . yes, .... with pleasure,” said Lucan, 
with a shade of hesitation that did not escape his friend. 

“ You think that it is useless, don’t you ? ” said the 
count with a forced smile. 

“ Useless, . . . why so ? ” 

“ In the first place, it is very late.” 

“ It is somewhat late, no doubt. Things have gone 
very far ; but I have never had much confidence in the 
stability of Julia’s ideas of her vocation. Besides, in 
these restless imaginations, the sincerest resolutions of 
to-day become readily the dislikes of the morrow.” 


140 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


“ But you doubt that that I should succeed in 

pleasing her ? ” 

Why should you not please her ? You are more than 
good-looking. ... You are thirty-two years old ; she is 
sixteen. ... You are a little richer than she is. . . . 
All that does very well.” 

“ Well, then, w'hy do you hesitate to serve me ? ” 

I do not hesitate to serve you ; only I see you very 
much in love ; you are not accustomed to it, and I fear 
that a condition of things so novel for you might be urg- 
ing you somewhat hastily to such a grave determination 

as marriage. A wife is not a mistress In short, 

before taking an irrevocable step I would beg of you to 
think well and further over if.” 

“ My good friend,” said the count, I do not wish, and 
I believe quite sincerely that 1 cannot, do so. You know 
my ideas. Genuine passions always have the best of it, 
and 1 am not quite sure that honor itself is a very effec- 
tive argument against them. As to setting up reason 
against them, it is worse than folly. Besides, come, 
Lucan, what is there so unreasonable in the simple fact 
of marrying a person I love ? I don’t see that it is abso- 
lutely necessary for a man not to love his wife — Well ! 
can I rely upon you ? ” 

Completely so,” said Lucan, taking his hand. “ I 
raised my objections ; now I am wholly at your service. 
I shall speak to Clotilde in a moment. She is going to 

see her daughter this afternoon Come and dine 

with us to-night ; but summon up all your courage, for, 
after all, success is very uncertain.” 

Monsieur de Lucan found it no difficult task to gain 
the cause of Monsieur de Moras with Clotilde. After 


JULIA DE TRECCEUB: 


141 


hearing him, not, however, without interrupting him more 
than once with exclamations of surprise : 

Mon Dieu ! ” she replied, that would be an ideal ! 
Not only would that marriage put an end to projects that 
break my heart, but it offers all the conditions of liappi- 
ness that I can possibly think of for my daughter, and 
furthermore, the friendship that binds you to Pierre would 
naturally, some day, bring about a rajyprochementhQt^'em 
his wife and yourself. All that would be too fortunate ; 
but how could we hope for such a complete and sudden 
revolution in Julia’s ideas ? She will not even allow me 
to deliver my message to the end.” 

She left, palpitating with anxiety. She found Julia 
alone in her room, trying on before a mirror her novice’s 
dress : the guimpe and the veil that were to conceal her 
luxuriant hair were laid upon the bed ; she was simply 
dressed in a long white woollen tunic, whose folds she was 
engaged in adjusting. She blushed when she saw her 
mother come in ; then with an incipient laugh : 

“ Cymodocea in the circus, isn’t it, mother ? ” 

Clotilde made no answer ; she had joined her hands in 
a supplicating attitude, and wept as she looked at her. 
Julia was moved by that mute sorrow ; two tears rolled 
from her eyes, and she threw her arms around her moth- 
er’s neck ; then, taking a seat by her side : 

“ What can I do ? ” she said ; “ I, too, feel some regret 
at heart, for, after all, I w^as fond of life ; . . . but aside 
from my vocation, which I believe quite real, I am yield- 
ing to a positive necessity. . . . There is no other exist- 
ence possible for me but that one. I know very well 
. . . . it’s my own fault; I have been somewhat foolish 
. . . I should not have left you in the place, or at least I 


142 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


should have returned to your house immediately after 


your marriage Now, after months, and even years, 

is it possible, I ask you? In the first place, I would die 
with shame. . . . Can you see me in presence of your hus- 


band ? What sort of countenance could I put on ? And 
then, he must fairly detest me, .... the bent must be 
firmly taken in his mind ; . . . myself, who knows if on 
seeing him again in that house. . . . Finally, I should 
be in all respects terribly in your way ! ” 

“ But, my dear child, no one hates you ; you would be 
received with transports of joy, like the prodigal child. If 
you deem it too painful to return to my home — if you fear 
to find or to bring trouble there with you, — God knows 
how mistaken you are on this point! but still, if you do 
fear it, is that a reason why you should bury yourself 
alive and break my heart ? Could you not return into 
the world without returning to my own house, and with- 
out having to face all those difficulties that frighten you ? 
There would be a very simple way of doing that, you 
know ! ” 

“ What is it?” said Julia quietly ; “to marry ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Clotilde, shaking her head gently 
and lowering her voice. 

“ But mon Dieu 1 mother, what possible chance is there 
of such a thing ? Suppose I were willing, — and I am far 
from it, — I know no one, no one knows me. . . .” 

“There is some one,” rejoined Clotilde, with increasing 
timidity ; “ some one whom you know perfectly well, and 
who .... who adores you.” 

Julia opened her eyes wide with a pensive and sur- 
prised expression, and after a brief pause of refiection : 

“ Pierre ? ” she said. 


JULIA BE TRECCEUB: 


143 


Yes,” murmured Clotilde, pale with anxiety. 

Julia’s eyebrows became slightly contracted ; she raised 
her head and remained for a few seconds with her eyes 
fixed upon the ceiling ; then, with a slight shrug of her 
shoulders : 

“Why not ? ” she said gravely. “ I would as soon have 
him as any one else ! ” 

Clotilde uttered a feeble cry, and grasping both her 
daughter’s hands : 

“ You consent ? ” she said ; “ you really consent ? And 
may I take your answer to him ? ” 

“ Yes, but you had better change the text of it,” said 
Julia, laughing. 

“ Oh ! my darling, darling dear ! ” exclaimed Clotilde, 
covering Julia’s hands with kisses; “but repeat again 
that it is all true . . . that by to-morrow you will not 
have changed your mind.” 

“I will not change my mind,” said Julia firmly, in her 
grave and musical voice. 

She meditated for a moment and then resumed : 

“ Really, he loves me, that big fellow ! ” 

“ Like a madman.” 

“ Poor man ! . . . And he is waiting for an answer ? ” 

“ With the utmost anxiety. ” 

“ Well, go and quiet his fears. ... We will take up 
the subject again to-morrow. I require to put a little 
order in my thoughts after all this confusion and excite- 
ment, you understand ; but you may rest easy. ... I 
have decided.” 

When Madame de Lucan returned home, Pierre de 
Moras was waiting for her in the parlor. He turned very 
pale when he saw her. 


144 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


u Pierre ! ” she said, all panting still, come and kiss 
me, you are my son ! . . . Eespectfully, if you please, re- 
spectfully!” she added laughingly as he lifted her up 
and clasped her to his heart. 

A little later, lie had the gratification of treating in the 
same manner the Baroness de Pers, who had been sent 
for in all haste. 

“My dear friend,” said the baroness, “I am delighted, 
really delighted, . . . but you are choking me — yes, yes, 
it is all for the best, my dear fellow — but you are liter- 
ally choking me, I tell you I Eeserve yourself, my friend, 
reserve yourself! — The dear child! that’s quite nice of 
her, quite nice ! In point of fact, she has a heart of gold ! 
. . . And then she has good taste too, . . . for you are 
very handsome yourself, very handsome, mon cher, very 
handsome ! To be perfectly candid, I always had an 
idea that, at the moment of cutting ofi: her hair, she would 
think the matter over. . ; . And she has such beautiful 
hair, the poor child ! ” 

And the baroness melted into tears ; then addressing 
the count in the midst of her sobs : 

“Ton’ll not be very unhappy either, by the way: she 
is a goddess ! ” 

Monsieur de Lucan, though deeply moved by this family 
tableau, and above all, by Clotilde’s joy, took more.coolly 
that unexpected event. Besides that he did not generally 
show himself very demonstrative in public, he was sad 
and anxious at heart. . The future prospects of this mar- 
riage seemed extremely uncertain to him, and in his pro- 
found friendship for the count he felt alarmed. He had 
not ventured, through a sentiment of delicate reserve tow- 
ards Julia, upon telling him all he thought of her char- 


JULIA DE TRECCEUB: 


145 


acter and disposition. He strove to banish from his mind 
as partial and iinjnst the opinion he had formed of her ; 
hnt still he could not help remembering the terrible child 
he had known once, at times wild as a hurricane, at others 
pensive and wrapped in gloomy reserve; he tried to im- 
agine her such as she had been described to him since : 
tall, handsome, ascetic; then he fancied her suddenly 
casting her veil to the winds, like one of the fantastic 
nuns in Robert le JDiable^ and returning swift-footed into 
the world : of all these various impressions he composed, 
in spite of liimself, a figure of jChimera and Sphinx, wdiich 
he found very difficult to connect' -g^tli the idea of domes- 
tic happiness. 

They discussed in the family circle, during the whole 
evening, the complications which might arise from that 
marriage project, and the means of avoiding them. Mon- 
sieur de Lucan entered into all these details with the ut- 
most good grace, and declared that he would lend him- 
self heartily, for his own part, to all the arrangements 
whicli his daughter-in-law might wish. That precaution 
was not destined to be useless. 

Early the next morning, Clotilde returned to the con- 
vent. Julia, after listening with slightly ironical nonchal- 
ant to the account which her mother gave her of the 
trans|||^rts and the joy of her intended, assumed a more 
serious air. 

“ And your husband,” she said, what does he think of 

ikr’ 

* He is delighted, as we all are.” 

“ I am going to ask you a singular question ; does he 
expect to be present at our wedding ? ” 

, That will be just as you like.” 


146 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


“Listen, good little mother, and don’t grieve in ad- 
vance. I know very well that sooner or later, this mar- 
riage must be the means of bringing us all together . . . 
but let me have a little time to become accustomed to the 
idea. . . . Grant me a few months so that the old J ulia 
may be forgotten, and I may forget her myself. . . you 
will ; say, won’t you ? ” 

“ Anything you please,” said Clotilde, with a sigli. 

“I beg of you. . . . Tell him that I beg of him too.” 

“ I’ll tell liim ; but do you know that Pierre is here ? ” 

“ Ah ! mon Dieu 1 and where did you leave him ? ” 

“ I left him in the garden.” 

“ In the garden ! . . . how imprudent, mother ! why, 
the ladies are going to tear him to pieces . . . like Or- 
pheus, for you may well believe that he is not in the odor 
of sanctity here.” 

Monsieur de Moras was sent for at once, and he came 
up in all haste. Julia began laughing as he appeared at 
the door, which facilitated his entree. She had several 
times, during their interview, fits of that nervous laughter 
which is so useful to women in trying cii’cumstances. 
Deprived of that resource. Monsieur de Moras contented 
himself with kissing the beautiful hands of his cousin, 
and was otherwise generally wanting in eloquence ; but 
his handsome and manly features were resplendeii^t, 'and 
his large blue eyes were moist with gratified afiection. 
He appeared to leave a favorable impression. 

“ I had never considered him in that light,” said Julia 
to her mother ; “ he is really very handsome .... he will 
make a splendid-looking husband.” 

The marriage took place three months later, privately 


JULIA LE treggsub:' 147 

and without any display. The Count de Moras and his 
youthful bride left for Italy the same evening. 

Monsieur de Lucan had left Paris two or three weeks 
before, and had taken up his quarters in an old family 
residence at the very extremity of Normandy, where 
Clotilde hastened to join him immediately after Julia’s 
departure. 


IV. 

Vastville, the patrimonial domain of the Lucan 
family, is situated a short distance from the sea, on the 
west coast of the Norman Finisterre. It is a manor with 
high roof and wrouglit-iron balconies, which dates from the 
time of Louis XIII., and which has taken the place of the 
old castle, a few ruins of which still serve to ornament 
the park. It is concealed in a thickly shaded depression 
of the soil, and a long avenue of antique elms precedes it. 
The aspect of it is singularly retired and melancholy, owing 
to the dense woods that surround it on all sides. This 
wooded thicket marks, on this point of the peninsula, the 
last effort of the vigorous vegetation of Normandy. As 
soon •as its edge has been crossed, the view extends sud- 
denly and without obstacle over the vast moors which 
form the triangular plateau of the Cape La Hague : fields 
of furze and heather, stone fences without cement, here 
and there a cross of granite, on the right and on the left 
the distant undulations of the ocean, — such is the severe 
but grand landscape that is suddenly unfolded to the 
eyes beneath the unobstructed light of the heavens. 


148 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


Monsieur de Lncan was born in Yastville. The poetic 
reminiscences of childhood mingled in his imagination 
with the natural poetry of that site, and made it dear to 
him. Under pretext of hunting, he came on a pilgrimage 
to it every year. Since his marriage only, he had given 
up that habit of the heart, in order not to leave Clotilde, 
who was detained in Paris by her daughter ; but it had 
been agreed upon thaj they would go and bury them- 
selves in that retreat for a season as soon as they had 
recovered their liberty. Clotilde only knew Yastville 
from her husband’s enthusiastic descriptions ; she loved 
it on his representations, and it was for her, in advance, 
aix enchanted spot. Nevertheless, when the carriage that 
brought her from the station entered, at niglitfall, among 
the wooded hills, in the gloomy avenue that led up to the 
chateau, she felt an impression as of cold. 

“ Mon Dieu ! my dear,” she said laughingly, your 
chateau is a perfect castle of Udolpho ! ” 

Lucan excused his chateau as best he could, and pro- 
tested, moreover, that he was ready to leave it the very 
next day, if she were not better pleased with its appear- 
ance after sunrise. 

It was not long before she became passionately fond of 
it. Tier happiness, hitherto so constrained, blossomed 
freely for the first time in that solitude, and shed upon it 
a charming light. She even expressed the wish of spending 
the winter and waiting there for Julia, who was to return 
to France in the course of the following year. Lucan 
offered some slight opposition to that project, which ap- 
peared to him rather over-heroic for a Parisian, but ended 
by adopting it, too happy himself to harbor the romance 


JULIA DE TREOCEUR. 


149 


of liis love in that romantic spot. He began, however, 
taxing his ingenuity to attenuate what there might be 
too austere in that abode, by opening relations with some 
of the neighbors for Clotilde’s benefit, and by procuring 
her, at intervals, her mother’s society. Madame de Pers 
was kind enough to lend herself to that combination, al- 
though the country was generally repulsive to her, and 
Yastville in particular had in her eyes a sinister character. 
She pretended that she heard at night noises in the walls 
and moans in the woods. She slept with one eye open 
and two candles burning. The magnificent cliffs that bor- 
dered the coast a short distance off, and which they tried 
to make her admire, caused her a painful sensation. r' 
Y ery fine ! ” she said, “ very wild ! quite wild ! But 
it makes me sick ; I feel as though I were on top of the 
towers of Hotre Dame ! Besides, my children, love 
beautifies everything, and I understand your transports 
perfectly. As to myself, you must excuse me if do not 
share them. I can never go into ecstasies over such a 
country as this. — 1 am as fond of the country as any one, 
but this is not the country — it is the desert, Arabia Petroea, 
I know not what. . . . And as to your chateau, my dear 
friend — I am sorry to tell you so: it. has afiavor of crime. 
Look well, and you’ll see that a murder has been com- 
mited in it.” 

“ Why, no, my dear madame,” replied Lucan laughingly, 
“I know perfectly the history of my family, and I can 
guarantee you . . .” 

“ Best assured, my friend, that some one has been killed 
in it. . . in old times. You know how little they troubled 
themselves about those things formerly ! ” 

Julia’s letters to her mother were frequent. It was a 


150 


TEE SPEIEX; OR, 


regular journal of travels, written helter-skelter, with a 
striking originality of style, in which the vivacity of the 
impressions was corrected by that shade of haughty irony 
which was a peculiarity of the writer. J ulia spoke rather 
briefly of her husband, but always in pleasant terms. 
There was generally a rapid and kindly postscript ad- 
dressed to Monsieur de Lucan. 

Monsieur de Moras was more chary of descriptions. 
He seemed to see no one but his wife in Italy. He extolled 
her beauty, still further enhanced, he said, by the contact 
of all those marvels of art with which she was becoming 
impregnated ; he praised her extraordinary taste, her intel- 
ligence, and even her good disposition. In this latter re- 
spect, she was extremely matured, and he found her al- 
most too staid and too grave for her age. These particu- 
lars delighted Clotilde, and finished instilling into her 
heart a peace she had never yet enjoyed. 

The count’s letters were not less reassuring for the 
future than the present. He did not think it necessary, 
he said, to urge Julia on the subject of her reconcilia- 
tion with her step-father ; but he felt that she was quite 
ready for it. He was, besides, preparing her more and 
more for it by conversing habitually with her of the 
old friendship that united him to Monsieur de Lucan, of 
their past life, of their travels, of the perils they had braved 
together. Hot only did Julia hear these narratives with- 
out revolt, but she often solicited them, as if she had re- 
gretted her prejudices, and had sought good reasons to 
forget them. 

“ Come, Pylades, speak to me of Orestes ! ” she would 
say. 

After having spent the whole* winter season and part 


JULIA BE TRECCEUR: 


151 


of the spring in. Italy, Monsieur and Madame de Moras 
visited Switzerland, announcing their intention of sojourn- 
ing there until the middle of summer. Tlie thought 
occurred to Monsieur and Madame de Lucan to go and 
join them there, and thus abruptly bring about a recon- 
ciliation that seemed henceforth to be but a mere matter of 
form. Clotilde was preparing to submit that project to 
her daughter when she receive^, one beautiful May morn- 
ing, the following letter dated from Paris : 

“ Beloved Mother, — 

“ ^ hTo more Switzerland ! ’ too much Switzerland ! 
Here I am ; don’t disturb yourself. I know how much 
you are enjoyimg yourself at Yastville. We’ll go and 
join you there one of these fine mornings, and we’ll 
all come home together in the autumn. I only ask you 
a few days to look after our future establishment here. 

‘^We are at the Grand Hotel. I did not choose to 
stop at your house, for all sorts of reasons, nor at my 
grandmother’s, who, however, insisted very kindly upon 
our doing so : 

^ Oh ! mon Dieu ! my dear children .... that must 


not be .... in a hotel ! . . . . why, that is not proper. 
You cannot remain in a hotel! Come and stay with 
me Mon Dieu ! you’ll be very uncomfortable. 


. . . You’ll be camping out, as it were. . . I don’t 
even know how I’ll manage to give you anything to eat, 
for my cook is sick abed, and that stupid coachman of 
mine, by the way, has a stye on his eye I But why not 
let people know you were coming ? You fall upon me 
like two flower-pots from a window ! It’s incredible ! — 
You are in good health, my friend. ... I need not 


152 


TBE SPHINX; OR, 


ask 3^011. ... It shows plainly enough. . . . And yon, 
my beautiful pet ? Why ! it is the sun ; . . • the sun 
itself. . . . Hide yourself ... you are dazzling my 
eyes! — Have you any luggage ? Well, we’ll just put it 
in the parlor ; it can’t be helped. And as to yourselves. 
I’ll give you my own room. I’ll engage a housekeeper 
and hire a driver from some livery stable. . . . You’ll 
not be in my way at all, not at all, not at all ! ’ . . . . 

“ In short, we did not accept. 

“ But the explanation of this sudden return ! . . . 
Here it is : 

“ ‘ Are you not tired of Switzerland, my dear ? ’ I 
asked of my husband. 

am tired of Switzerland,’ replied that faithful 

echo. 

“ ‘ Suppose we go away, then ? ’ 

“ And away we went. 

Glad and moved to the bottom of my soul at the 
' iought of soon kissing you, 

‘‘ Julia. 

“ P. S. — I beg Monsieur de Lucan not to intimidate me.” 

The days that followed were delightfully busy for 
Clotilde. She herself unpacked the parcels that constantly 
kept coming, and put the contents away with her own ma- 
ternal hands. She unfolded and folded again, she caressed 
those skirts, those waists of fine and perfumed linen, 
which were already to her like a part of her daughter’s 
person. Lucan, a little jealous, surprised her meditating 
lovingly over those pretty things. She went to the sta- 
bles to see Julia’s horse, which had followed soon after 
the boxes ; she gave him lumps of sugar and chatted 


JULIA BE TREGGEUa: 


153 


■with him. She filled with fiowers and verdant foliage 
the apartments set apart for the young couple. 

This fever of happiness soon came to its happy termi- 
nation. About a week after her arrival in Paris, Julia 
wrote to her mother that they expected, her husband 
and herself, to leave that evening, and that they would 
be in Clierbourg the next morning. That was the near- 
est station to Yastville. Clotilde prepared, of course, 
to 2;o and meet them with her carriage. Monsieur de 
Lucan, after duly conferring with her on the subject, 
thought best not to accompany her. He feared that he 
might interfere with the first emotions of the return, 
and yet, not wishing that Julia should attribute his ab- 
sence to a lack of attention, he resolved to go and meet 
the travellers on horseback. 


Y. 

It was on one of the. first days of June. Clotilde had 
left early in the morning, fresh and radiant as the dawn. 
Two hours later, Lucan mounted his horse and started 
at a walk. The roads are lovely in Normandy at this 
season. The hawthorn hedges perfume the country, 
and sprinkle here and there the edges of the road with 
their rosy snow. A profusion of fresh verdure, dotted 
with -wild flowers, covers the face of the ditches. All 
that, under the gay morning sun, is a feast for the eyes. 
M. de Lucan, however, greatly contrary to his custom, 
7 * 


154 


THE SPHINX; OP, 


bestowed but very slight attention upon the spectacle 
of that smiling nature. He was preoccupied, to a 
degree that surprised himself, with his coming meeting 
with his step-daughter. Julia had been such a besetting 
thought in his mind that he had retained of her an 
exaggerated impression. He strove in vain to restore 
her to her natural proportions, which were, after all, 
only those of a child, formerly a naughty child, now a 
prodigal child. He had become accustomed to invest 
her, in his imagination, with a mysterious importance 
and a sort of fatal power, of which he found it difficult 
to strip her. He laughed and felt irritated at his own 
weakness ; but he experienced ' an agitation mingled 
with curiosity and vague uneasiness, at the moment of 
beholding face to face that sphinx whose shadow had so 
long disturbed his life, and who now came in' person to 
sit at his fireside. 

An open barouche, decked with parasols, appeared at 
the summit of a hill ; Lucan saw a head leaning and a 
handkerchief waving outside the carriage : he urged 
at once his horse to a gallop. Almost at the same 
instant the carriage stopped, and a yo'ung woman 
jumped lightly upon the road; she turned around to 
address a few words to her travelling-companions, and 
advanced alone towards Lucan. Not wishing to be out- 
done in politeness, he alighted also, handed his horse to 
the groom who followed him, and started with cheerful 
alacrity in the direction of the young woman, whom he 
did not recognize, but who was evidently Julia. She 
.was coming towards him without haste, with a sliding 
walk, rocking gently her flexible figure. As she drew 
near, she threw off her veil with a rapid motion of her 


JULIA DE TRECOSUR: 


155 


hand, and Lucan was enabled to find again upon that 
youthful face, in those large and slightly clouded eyes, 
and the pure and stretching arch of the eyebrows, some 
features of the child he had known. 

When Julia’s glance met that of Lucan, her pale 
complexion became suffused with a purple blush. He 
bowed very low to her, and with a smile full of affec- 
tionate grace : 

Welcome ! ” he said. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Julia in a voice whose grave 
and melodious suavity struck Lucan; “friends, are we 
not ? ” And she held out both her hands to him with 
charming resol ution . 

He drew her gently to himself to kiss her ; but think- 
ing that he felt a slight resistance in the suddenly 
stiffening arms of his step-daughter, he contented himself 
with kissing her wrist just above her glove. Then 
affecting to look at her with a polite admiration, which, 
however, was perfectly sincere : 

“I really feel,” he said laughingly, “ like asking you 
to whom I have the honor of speaking.” 

“ You find me grown?” she said, showing her dazzling 
teeth. 

“ Surprisingly so,” said Lucan ; “ most surprisingly. I 
understand Pierre perfectly now.” 

“Poor Pierre!” said Julia; “he is so fond of you. 
Don’t let us keep him waiting any longer, if you please.” 

They started in the direction of the carriage, in front 
of which Monsieur de Moras was awaiting them, and 
while walking side by side : 

“ What a lovely country !” resumed Julia. . . . “And 
the sea quite near ? ” 


156 


THE SPHINX; OHf 


“ Quite near.” 

‘‘We'!! take a ride on horseback after breakfast, 
will we not ? ” 

Quite willingly ; but you must be horribly fatigued, 
my dear child. . . . Excuse me! . . . my dear. . . . 
By the way, how do you wish me to call you? ” 

‘‘ Call me madame. ... I was such a bad child 1 ” 

And she broke forth into a roll of that sudden, grace- 
ful, but somewhat equivocal laughter that was habitual 
with her. Then raising her voice : 

“ You may come, Pierre ; your friend is my friend 
now ! ” 

She left the two men shaking hands cordially, and, ex- 
changing the usual greetings, jumped into the carriage, 
and resuming her seat at her mother’s side : 

‘‘Mother,” she said, kissing her at the same time, 
“ the meeting came off very well — didn’t it, Monsieur de 
Lucan ? ” 

“Yerywell indeed,” said Lucan laughingly, “except 
some minor details.” 

“ Oh ! you are too hard to please, sir 1 ” said Julia, 
drawing her wrappings around her. 

The next moment Monsieur de Lucan was cantering 
by the carriage door, while the three travellers inside were 
indulging in one of those expansive talks that usually 
follow the happy solution of a dreaded crisis. Clotilde, 
henceforth in the full possession of all her affections, 
was fairly soaring in the ethereal blue. 

“ You are too handsome, mother,” said Julia. “ With 
such a big girl as I am, it is a positive crime 1 ” 

And she kissed her again. 

Lucan, while participating in the conversation and 


JULIA BE TBEGCEURJ 


157 


doing to Julia the honors of the landscape, was trying to 
sum up within himself his impressions of the ceremony 
wdiich had just taken place. Upon the whole he thought, 
as did his step-daughter, that it had come off very well, 
although it was not quite perfection. Perfection would have 
been to find in J ulia a plain and unaffected woman, who 
would have simply thrown herself in her step-father’s 
arms and laughed with him at her spoilt child’s escapade ; 
but he had never expected Julia’s manners to be quite as 
frank and open as that. She had done in the present 
circumstances all that could be expected of a nature like 
hers : she had shown herself graciously friendly ; she had, 
it is true, imparted to this first interview a certain solemn 
and dramatic turn. She was romantic, and as Lucan was 
tolerably so himself, this whim of hers had not proved 
unpleasant to him. 

He had been, moreover, agreeably surprised at the 
beauty of Madame de Moras, which was indeed strik- 
ing. The severe regularity of lier features, the deep lus- 
tre of her blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, the ex- 
quisite harmony of her form were not her only, nor indeed 
her principal attractions; she owed her rare and person- 
al charm to a sort of strange grace mingled with flexibility 
and strength, that lent enchantment to her every motion. 
She had in the play of her countenance, in her step, in 
her gestures, the sovereign ease of a woman who does not 
feel a single weak point in her beauty, and who moves, 
grows, and blossoms with all the freedom of a child in 
his cradle or a fallow deer in the forest. Made as she 
was, she had no difficulty in dressing well ; the simplest 
costumes fitted her person with an elegant precision that 


158 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


caused tlie Baroness de Pers to say in her inaccurate 
though expressive language : 

“ A pair of kid gloves would be enough to dress her 
with.” 

During that same day and those that followed, Julia 
conquered new titles to Monsieur de Lucan’s good graces, 
by manifesting a strong liking for the chateau of Yast- 
ville and the surrounding sites. The chateau pleased her 
for its romantic style, its old-fashioned garden ornamented 
with yews and evergreens, the lonely avenues of the park, 
and its melancholy woods scattered with ruins. She went 
into ecstasies at the sight of the vast heather plains lashed 
by the ocean winds, the trees with twisted and convulsive 
tops, the tall granite cliffs worn by the everlasting waves. 

‘ ‘ All that,” she said laughingly, “ has a great deal of 
character and as she had a great deal of it herself, she 
felt in her element. She had found the home of her 
dreams, she was happy. 

Her mother, to whom she paid up in passionate effusions 
all arrearages of tenderness, was still more so. 

The greater part of the day was spent riding about on 
horseback. After dinner, Julia, with that joyous and 
somewhat feverish spirit that animated her, related her 
travels, parodying in a good-natured manner her own en- 
thusiasm and her husband’s relative indifference in pres- 
ence of the masterpieces of antique art. She illustrated 
these recollections with scenes of mimicry in which she 
displayed the skill of a fairy, the imagination of an artist, 
and sometimes the broad humor of a low comedian. In 
a turn of the hand, with a flower, a bit of silk, a sheet of 
paper, she composed a Neapolitan, Koman, or Sicilian 
head-dress. She performed scenes from ballets or operas, 


JULIA BE TRECCEUR. 


159 


pushing back tlie train of her dress with a tragic sweep 
of her foot, and accentuating strongly the common-place 
exclanaations of Italian lyrism ; 

“ O Ciel ! Crudel ! Perfido ! O dio ! Perdona ! ” 

Or else, kneeling on an arm-chair, she imitated the voice 
and manner of a preacher she had heard in Rome, and 
who did not seem to have sufficiently edified her. 

Tlirongh all these various performances she never lost 
a particle of her grace, and her most comical attitudes 
retained a certain elegance. 

After all these frolics she would resume her expression 
of an e7inuyed queen. 

Beneath the charm of the life and prestige of this bril- 
liant nature, Monsieur de Lucan readily forgave Julia the 
caprices and peculiarities of which she was lavishly prodi- 
gal, especially towards her step-father. She showed her- 
self generally with him what she had been at the start ; 
friendly and polite, with a shade of haughty irony ; but 
she had strong inequalities of temper. Lucan surprised 
sometimes her gaze riveted upon him with a painful and 
almost fierce expression. One day she repelled with sul- 
len rudeness the hand he offered to assist her in alight- 
inof from her horse or in climbing over a fence. She 
seemed to avoid every occasion of finding herself alone 
with him, and when she could not escape a tete-Atete of 
a fe'W moments, she manifested either restless irritation or 
mocking impertinence. Lucan fancied she reproached 
herself sometimes with belying too much her former 
sentiments, and that she thought she owed it to herself to 
give them from time to time a token of fidelity. He was 
grateful to her, however, for reserving for himself alone 


160 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


these equivocal manifestations, and for not troubling her 
mother with them. Upon the whole he attached hut a 
slight importance to tliese symptoms. If there still was 
in the affectionate manifestations of his step-daughter 
something of a struggle and an effort, it was on the part 
of that haughty nature an excusable feature, a last resist- 
ance^ which he flattered himself soon to remove by multi- 
plying his delicate attentions towards her. 

Some two weeks after Julia’s arrival, there was a ball 
given by the Marchioness de Boisfresnay, in her chateau 
of Boisfresnay, which is situated two or three miles from 
Yastville. Monsieur and Madame de Lucan were on 
pleasant visiting-terms with the marchioness. They went 
to that ball with Julia and her husband, the gentlemen iii 
the coupe, the ladies, on account of their dresses, occupy- 
ing the carriage alone. Towards midnight, Clotilde took 
her husband aside, and pointing to her daughter, who was 
waltzing in the adjoining parlor with a naval officer: 

Hush ! my dear,” she said ; “ I have a frightful head- 
ache, and Pierre is fairly bored to death ; but we have not 
the courage to take Julia away so early. Ho you wish to 
make yourself very agreeable ? You’ll bring her home, 
and we will start now, Pierre and myself ; we’ll leave you 
the carriage.” 

y ery well, dear,” said Lucan, “ run off, then.” 

Clotilde and Monsieur de Moras slipped away at once. 

A moment later Julia, cleaving her way scornfully 
through the throng that parted before her as before an 
angel of light, raised her superb brow and made a sign to 
Lucan. 

I don’t see mother,” she said. 

Lucan informed her in two words of the arrangement 


JULIA BE TREGGEURy 


161 


which had just been settled upon. A sudden flash darted 
across Julia’s eyes ; her brows became contracted ; she 
shrugged her shoulders slightly without replying, and 
returned into the ball-room, waltzing through the crowd 
with the same tranquil insolence. She betook herself 
again to the arm of a naval oiflcer, and seemed to enjoy 
whirling in all her splendor. And indeed her ball-dress 
added a strange lustre to her beauty. Pier shoulders and 
throat, emerging from her dress with a sort of chaste in- 
difference, retained even in the animation of the dance 
the cold and lustrous purity of marble. 

Lucan asked her to waltz with him ; she hesitated, but 
having consulted her memory, she discovered that she 
had not yet exhausted the list of naval officers who had 
swooped down in squadrons upon that rich prey. At the 
end of an hour she got tired of being admired, and called 
for the carriage. As she was draping herself in her wrap- 
pings in the vestibule, her step-father volunteered his ser- 
vices. 

“ No ! I beg of you,” she said impatiently ; men don’t 
know — don’t know at all ! ” 

Then she threw herself in the carriage with a wearied 
look. Ilowever, as the horses were starting : 

“ Smoke, sir,” she said with a better grace. 

Lucan thanked her for the permission, but without 
availing himself of it ; then, while making all his little 
ar]-angements of neighborly comfort : 

“ You were remarkably handsome to-night, my dear 
child ! ” he said. 

“ Monsieur,” said Julia in a nonchalant but affirmative 
tune, “ I forbid you to think me handsome, and I forbid 
you to call me ‘ my dear child ’ 1 ” 


162 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


“ As you please,” said Lucan. “ Well, then, you are not 
handsome, you are not dear to me, and you are not a 
child.” 

“As for being a child, no ! ” she said energetically. 

She wound her veil around her head, crossed her arms 
over her bosom, and settled herself in her corner, where 
a stray moonbeam came occasionally to play over her' 
whiteness. 

“ May I sleep ? ” she asked. 

“ Why, most certainly ! Shall I close the window ? ” 

“ If you please. My flowers will not incommode 
you 

' “ Hot in the least.” 

After a pause : 

“ Monsieur de Lucan ?” resumed Julia. 

“ Dear madame ? ” 

“ Do explain to me in what consist the usages of society ; 
for there are things which I do not understand. ... Is 
it admissible — ^is it proper to allow a woman of my age 
and a gentleman of yours to return from a ball, tete-a- 
tete, at two o’clock in the morning ? ” 

“ But,” said Lncan, not without a certain gravity, “ I 
am not a gentleman ; I am your mother’s husband.” 

“ All ! that is true ; of course, you are my mother’s 
husband ! ” she said, emphasizing these words in a ringing 
voice, which caused Lucan to fear some explosion. 

But, appearing to overcome a violent emotion, she went 
on in an almost cheerful tone : 

“ Yes, you are my mother’s husband ; and what is more, 
you are, according to my notion, a very bad husband 
for my mother.” 


JULIA BE TREGCEUR: 


163 


“ According to joiir notion ! ” said Lucan quietly. And 

why so ? ” 

‘‘ Because you are not at all suited to her.” 

“Have you consulted your mother on that subject, my 
dear madame ? It seems to me that she must be a better 
judge of it than yourself.” 

“ I need not consult her. It is enough to see you both 
together. My mother is an angelic creature, whereas you ; 
— no ! ” 

“ What am I, then ? ” 

A romantic, restless man — the very reverse, in fact. 
Sooner or later, you’ll betray her.” 

“ I^ever ! ” said Lucan somewhat sternly. 

“ Are you quite sure of that, sir ? ” said Julia, riveting 
her gaze upon him from the depths of her hood. 

“Dear madame,” replied Monsieur de Lucan, “ you were 
asking me, a moment since, to explain to you what was 
proper and what was improper ; well, it is improper that 
we should take, you your mother, and I my wife, as the text 
for a jest of that kind, and consequently, it is proper 
that we should drop the subject.” 

She hushed, remained motionless and closed her eyes. 
In the course of a minute or too, Lu(;an saw a tear fall 
down her long eyelashes and roll over her cheek. 

“ Mon Dieu ! my child,” he said, “ I have wounded 
your feelings ! Allow me to tender you my sincere apolo- 
gies.” 

“Keep your apologies to yourself!” she said in a 
hoarse voice, opening her eyes wide at the same time. “I 
have no need of your apologies any more than of your 
lessons!.. . Your lessons ! What have I done to deserve 
such a humiliation ? I cannot understand. What is there 


164 : 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


more innocent than my words, and what do you expect me 
to tell you ? Is it my fault if I am here alone with you ? 
... if I am compelled to speak to you ? — if I know not 
what to say ? Why am I exposed to such tilings ? Why ask 
me more than I can do? is presuming too much on 
my strength ! It is enough — it is a thousand times too 
much already — to be compelled to act such a comedy as I 
am compelled to act every day. God knows if I am tired 
of it ! ” 

Lucan found it difficult to overcome the painful sur- 
prise that had seized him. 

Julia,” he said at last, ‘‘ you were kind enough to tell 
me that we were friends ; I believed you. ... Is it not 
true, then ? ” 

‘‘No!” 

After launching that word with sombre energ^^-, she 
wrapped up her head and face in her hood and veil, and 
remained during the rest of the way plunged into a sil- 
lence which Monsieur de Lucan did not attempt to dis- 
turb. 


YI. 

After a few hours of painful sleep. Monsieur de Lucan 
rose the next day, his brain laden with cares. The re- 
sumption of hostilities, which had been clearly signified to 
him foreboded surely fresh troubles for his peace and fresh 
anguish for Clotilde’s happiness. Was he, then, about 
returoing to those odious agitations which had so long 


JULIA BE TRECCEUn: 


165 


harassed his existence, and this time without any hopes of 
escape ? How, indeed, was it possible not to despair of 
that untamable nature which age and reason, which so 
much attention and afPection had left unmoved in her 
prejudices and her hatred. How was it possible to under- 
take, and, above all, ever to overcome the quixotic senti- 
ment, or rather the mania which had taken possession of 
that concentrated soul, and which was smouldering in it, 
ever ready to break forth in furious outbursts % 

Clotilde and Julia liad not yet made their appearance. 
Lucan went to take a walk in the garden, to breathe once 
more the peace of his beloved solitude, pending the an- 
ticipated storms. At the extremity of an alley of ever- 
greens, he discovered the Count de Moras, his arm resting 
on the pedestal of an old statue, and liis eyes fixed on the 
ground. 

Monsieur de Moras had never been a dreamer, but 
since his arrival at the chateau, be had, on more than one 
occasion, manifested to Lucan a melanchol}^ state of 
mind quite foreign to his natural disposition. Lucan had 
felt alarmed ; nevertheless, as be did not himself like any 
one to intrude upon his confidence, he had abstained 
from questioning liim. 

They shook hands as they met. 

“ You came home late last night ? ” inquired the 
count. 

“ At about three o’clock.” 

“ Oh ! jpomro ! — Ajprojpos^ thanks for your kindness 
to Julia. How did she behave to you ? ” 

Why . . . well enough,” said Lucan — a little pecu- 
liar, as usual.” 

“ Oh 1 peculiar — of course ! ” 


166 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


He smiled rather sadly, took Monsieur de Lucan’s arm, 
and leading him through the meandering paths of the 
garden : 

“ Voyons, mon cher^^ he said in a suppressed voice, 
between you and me, what is Julia ? ” 

“ How, my friend ? ” 

“ Yes, what sort of a woman is my wife ? If you know, 
do tell me, I beg of you.” 

Excuse me. . . but it is the very question I would 
like to ask of you myself.” 

“ Of me ? ” said the count. “ But I have not the slightest 
idea. She is a Sphinx, a riddle, the solution of which 
escapes me completely. She both charms and frightens 
me* She is peculiar, you said? She is more than 
that : she is fantastic. She is not of this world. I know 
not whom or what I liave married. ... You remember 
that cold and beautiful creature in the Arabian tales who 
rose at night to go and feast in the graveyard. It’s absurd, 
but she reminds me of that.” 

The count’s troubled look, the constrained laugh with 
which he accompanied his words, moved Lucan deeply. 

“ So then,” said the latter, “ you are unhappy ? ” 

“ It is impossible to be more so,” replied the count, 
pressing his hand hard. ^‘I adore her, and I am jealous 
.... without knowiiig of whom and of what ! She does^ 
not love me, .... and yet she loves some one . . . she 
must love some one ! How can I doubt it ? Look at her : 
she is the very embodiment of passion ; . . . . the fire 
of passion overflows in her words, in her looks, in the 
blood of her veins 1 . . . And near me, she is as cold 
as the statue upon a tomb ! ” 

“ Frankly, inon cher^^ said Lucan, “you seem to exag 


JULIA BE TREC(EUR. 


167 


gerate your disasters greatly. In reality they seem to 
amount to very little. In the first place, you are seriously 
in love for the first time in your life, I think ; you had 
heard a great deal said about love, about passion, and per- 
haps you were expecting of them excessive wonders. In 
the second place, I must beg you to observe that very 
young women are rarely very passionate. The sort of 
coolness of which you complain is therefore quite easy 
to explain witliout the intervention of anything superna- 
tural. Young women, I repeat, are generally idealists ; 
their love has no substance. . . . You ask of whom or 
of what 3"ou should be jealous? Be jealous, then, of all 
those vague and romantic aspirations that torment youth- 
ful imaginations ; be jealous of the wind, of the tempest, 
of the barren moors, of the rugged clifPs, of my old 
manor, of my words and of iny ruins — for Julia adores 
all that. Be, jealous, above all, of that ardent worship 
she has vowed to her father’s memory, and which still 
absorbs her — I have lately had a proof of the fact — the 
keenest of her passion.” 

You do me good,” rejoined Pierre de Moras, breath- 
ing more freely, and yet I had already thought of all 
these things. . . . But if she does not love now, she will 
some day .... and suppose it should not be me ! Were 
she to bestow upon another all that she refuses me ! . . . 
my friend,” added the count, whose handsome features 
turned pale, “ I would kill her with my own hand ! ” 

“ So much for being in love,” said Lucan ; “ and I, am 
I nothing more to you, then ? ” 

“You, my friend?” said Moras with emotion . . . . 
“ you see my confidence in you I I have revealed to you 
weaknesses of which I am ashamed. . . . Ah ! why have 


168 


TEE SPHINX; OB, 


I ever known any other feeling than that of friendship ! 
Friendship alone returns as much as it receives ; it forti- 
fies instead of enervating ; it is the only passion worthy 
of a man. . . . F’cver forsake me, my friend ; you will 
console me, whatever may happen.” 

The bell that was ringing for breakfast called them 
back to the chateau. Julia pretended being tired and 
ailing. Under shelter of this pretext, her silent humor, 
her more than dry answers to Lucan’s polite questions, 
passed at first without awakening either her motlier’s or 
her husband’s attention ; but during the remainder of the 
day, and amid the various incidents of family life, 
Julia’s aggressive tone and disagreeable manners tow- 
ards Lucan became too strongly marked not to be 
noticed. However, as Lucan had the patience and good 
taste not to seem to notice it, each one kept his own 
impressions to himself. The dinner was, that day, more 
quiet than usual. The conversation fell, towards the 
end of the meal, upon extremely delicate ground, and 
it was Julia who brought it there, though, however, 
without the least thouglit of evil. She was exhausting 
her mocking vct'og upon a little boy of eight or ten — 
the son of the Marchioness de Boisfresnay — who had 
annoyed her extremely the niglit before, by parading 
through the ball his own pretentious little person, and 
by throwing himself pleasantly like a top between the 
legs of the gentlemen and through the dresses of the 
ladies. The marchioness went into ecstasies at these 
charming pranks. Clotilde defended her mildly, alleging 
that this child was her only son. 

That is no reason for bestowing upon society one 
scoundrel the more,” said Lucan. 


JULIA BE TREOmUR 


169 


“However,” rejoined Julia, who hastened to be no 
longer of her own opinion as soon as her step-father 
seemed to have rallied to it, “ it is a well acknowledged 
fact that spoilt children are those who turn out the 
best.” 

“ There are at least some exceptions,” said Lucan 
coldly. 

“ I know of none,” said Julia. 

“Mon Dieu!” said the Count de Moras in a tone 
of conciliation, “ right or wrong, it is quite the fashion, 
nowadays, to spoil children.” 

“It is a criminal fashion,” said Lucan. “Formerly 
their parents whipped them, and thus made men of 
them.”' 

“ When a man has such a disposition as that,” said 
Julia, “ he does not deserve to have any children .... 
and he has none ! ” she added with a direct look that 
further aggravated the unkind and even cruel intention 
of her words. 

Monsieur de Lucan turned very pale. Clotilde’s eyes 
filled with tears. Julia, embarrassed at her triumph, 
left the room. Her mother, after remaining for a few 
moments her face covered with her hands, rose from 
the table and went to join her. 

“ Now, mon cJier^^ said Monsieur de Moras as soon as 
he found himself alone with Lucan, what the mischief 
took 'place between you two last night? . . . You did 
tell me something about it this morning, but I was so 
much absorbed in my own selfish preoccupations, that I 
paid no attention to it. . . . But tell me, what did 
take place between you ? ” 

“ Nothing serious. Only I was able to satisfy myself 


170 


TEE SPHINX; OR, 


that she liad not yet forgiven my occupying a place wliich, 
according to her ideas, should never have been tilled.” 

“ Wbat would you advise me to do, George ? ” rejoined 
Monsieur de Moras. “ I am ready to do whatever you say.” 

“ My dear friend,” said Lucan, laying gently his hands 
upon Pierre’s shoulders, “ don’t be offended, but life in 
common, under such conditions, becomes a very difficult 
matter. It is best not to wait until some irreparable 
scene. In Paris we will be able to see each without 
difficulty. I advise you to take her away.” 

“ Suppose she is not willing.” 

^^I should speak firmly,” said Lucan, looking him 
straight in the eyes; ‘^I have some work to do this 
evening : it happens well and will give you a good oppor- 
tunity. In the meantime, au revowP 

Monsieur de Lucan locked himself up in his library. 
An hour later, Clotilde came to join him. He could see 
that she had wept a great deal ; but she held out her 
forehead to him with her sweetest smile. While he was 
kissing her, she murmured simply and in a whisper : 

“ Forgive her for my sake ! ” 

And the charming creature withdrew in haste to hide 
her emotions. 

The next morning, Monsieur de Lucan, who, as usual, 
had risen quite early, had been writing for some time 
near the library window, which opened at quite a moder- 
ate height on the garden. He was not a little surprised 
to see his step-daughter’s face appear among the honey- 
suckle vines that crept over the iron trellis of the bal- 
cony: 

“ Monsieur,” she said in her most melodious tone, 
“ are you very busy % ” 


JULIA DE TBECCEURy 


in 


Oh, not at all 1 ” he replied, rising at the same time. 

“ It’s because, you see, the weather is perfectly delight- 
ful,” she said. “ Will you come and take a walk with 
me? ” 

Of course I will.” 

“Welly^orne then. . . . Good Heavens! how sweet 
this honeysuckle does smell ! ” , . 

And she snatched off a few flowers, which she threw to 
Lucan through the window, with a burst of laughter. 
He fastened them to his button-hole, making the gesture 
of a man who understands nothing of what is going on, 
but who has no reason to be angry. 

He found her in fresh morning costume, stamping upon 
the sand with her light and impatient foot. 

“ Monsieur de Lucan,” she told him gayly, “ my mother 
wishes me to be amiable with you, my husband wishes it. 
Heaven wills it too, I suppose ; that’s why I am willing 
also, and I assure you that I can be very amiable when I 
try. . . . You’ll see 1 ” 

‘‘ Is it possible ? ” said Lucan. 

“ You’ll see, sir ! ” she replied, dropping, him witlr all 
possible grace, a regular stage curtsey. 

“ And where are we going, pray, madame ? ” 

Wherever you like . . . through the woods, at random, 
if you please.” 

The w^ooded hills came so close to the chateau, that they 
bordered with a fringe of shade one side of the yard. 
Monsieur de Lucan and Julia took the flrst path that came 
in their way ; but it was not long before Julia left .the 
beaten roadway, to walk at liazard from tree to tree, 
'svandering at random, beating the thickets with her cane, 
picking flowers or leaves, stopping in ecstasy before the 


172 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


luminous bands that striped here and there the mossy car- 
pets, frankly intoxicated with movement, open air, sun- 
shine, and youth. V/hile walking, she cast to her com- 
panion words of pleasant fellowship, playful interpel- 
lation, childish jests, and caused the woods to ring again 
with the melody of her laughter. 

In her admiration for the wild flora, she had gradually 
collected a reo-ular bundle, of which Monsieur de Lucan 
accepted the burden with cheerful resignation. Notic- 
ing that he was almost bending under the weight, she 
sat down upon the gnarled roots of an old oak, in order, 
she said to make a selection among all this pell-mell. She 
tlien took upon lier lap the bundles of grass and flowers, 
and began throwing out everything that appeared to her 
of inferior quality. She handed over to Lucan, seated a 
step or two from her, whatever she thought fit to retain 
for the final bouquet, justifying gravely her decision upon 
each plant that she examined : 

You, my dear, you are too thin ! you’re pretty, but too 
short! . . .you, you smell bad ! . . . you, you look stupid.” 

Then, turning abruptly into another train of thought, 
which was not at first without causing some uneasiness to 
Monsieur de Lucan : 

“ It was you, w^asn’t it, who advised Pierre to speak to 
me witli firmness ? ” 

“ I ? ” said Lucan, “ what an idea 1 ” 

It must have been you. — You,” she went on again, 
speaking to her flowers, “you look sickly, good-night! 
— Yes, it must have been you. . . . One might think you 
quite meek, to look at you, whereas, on the contrary, you 
are very harsh, very tyrannical.” 

“Ferocious! ” said Lucan. 


JULIA BE TEEGCEUR: 


173 


At any rate, I have no fault to find with you for that. 
You were right : poor Pierre is too weak with me. I like a 
man to be a man. . . And yet he is very brave, is he not ? ” 
Extremely so,” said Lucan; “he is capable of the 
most energetic actions.” 

“ He looks like it, and yet with me . . . he is an angel.” 

“ It is because he loves you.” 

“ Quite probable ! — ^me of tliose flowers are so curi- 
ous. . . . Look at this one : it looks like a little lady ! ” 

“ I hope that you love him too, my good Pierre ? ” 

“ Quite probable too ! ” 

After a pause, she shook her head : 

“ And why should 1 love him ? ” 

“ What a question ! ” said Lucan. “ Why, because he is 
perfectly worthy of being loved ; because he has every 
quality : intelligence, heart, and even beauty . . . finally, 
because you have married him.” 

“Monsieur de Lucan, wull you allow me to tell you 
something confidentially ? ” 

“ I beg you to do so.” 

“ That trip to Italy has been very injurious to me.” 

“ 111 what way 1 ” 

“ Before my marriage, I did not think myself positively 
ugly, but I fancied myself at least quite plain.” 

“ Yes. . . . Well ? ” 

“ Well ! while travelling about Italy, among all those 
souvenirs and those marbles, so much admired, I made 
strange reflections. I said to myself that, after all, these 
princesses and goddesses of the ancient world, who drove 
shepherds and kings mad, for whose sake wars broke out 
and sacrileges were committed, were persons pretty much 
after my own style. Then occurred to me the fatal idea 


174 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


of mj own beauty ! I felt that I disposed of an exceptional 
power ; that I was a sacred object that could not be given 
away for a vulgar trifle, and which could only be the re- 
ward — how can I say ? — of a great deed or of a crime ! ” 

Lucan remained for a moment astonished at the auda- 
cious naivete of that language. He thought best, how- 
ever, to laugh at it. 

“ But, my dear Julia,” he sai^, ‘‘ take care : you mis- 
take the age. ... We are no longer in the days when 
nations went to war for the sake of a woman’s pretty eyes. 

. . . However, speak about it to Pierre ; he has every- 
thing required to furnish the great action you want. 
As to the crime, I think you had better give it up.” 

“ Do you think so? ” said Julia. What a pity ! ” she 
added, bursting out in a hearty laugh. “You see, I tell 
you all the nonsense that comes in my head. . . . That’s 
amiable enough, I hope, is it not ? ” 

“ It is certainly extremely amiable,” said Lucan. “ Keep 
on.” 

“With such precious encouragement, sir ! ” she said, 
rising and flnishing her sentence with a curtsey ; “ but 
for the present, let us go to breakfast. ... I recommend 
my bouquet to your attention. Hold the heads down. 

. . . W alk ahead, sir, and by the shortest road, if you please, 
for I have an appetite that is bringing tears to my eyes.” 

Lucan took the path that led most directly to the 
chateau. She follow’ed him with nimble step, at times 
humming a cavatina, at others addressing him fresh in- 
structions as to the manner of holding her bouquet, or 
touching him lightly with the end of her cane, to make 
him admire some birds perched upon a branch. 

Clotilde and Monsieur de Moras were waiting for them. 


JULIA DE TREGCEUR: 


175 


seated upon a bench outside the gate of the chateau. The 
anxiety depicted upon their countenances vanished at the 
sound of Julia’s laughing voice. 

As soon as she saw . them, she snatched the bouquet 
from Lucan’s hands, ran towards Clotilde, and throwing 
on her lap her fragrant harvest : 

“ Mother,” she said, “ we have had a delightful walk — 
I had a great deal of fun ; Monsieur de Lucan also, . . • 
and what’s more, he has improved very much by my 
conversation. ... I opened up new horizons to him! ” 

Slie described with her hand a great curve in the air, 
to indicate the immensity of the horizons she had opened 
up to Monsieur de Lucan. Then, drawing her mother 
towards the dining-room, and snuffing the air with ap- 
parent relish : 

‘‘ Oh ! that kitchen of my mother’s 1 ” she said. “What 
an aroma ! ” 

This charming humor, which was a source of great re- 
joicing to all the guests of the chateau, never flagged dur- 
ing that entire day, and, most unexpected of all, it con- 
tinued during the next and the following days without 
perceptible ch^ge. If Julia did still nurture any 
remnants of her moody cares, she had at least the kind- 
ness of keeping them to herself, and to suffer alone. 
More than once, still, she was seen returning from her 
solitary excursions with gloomy eye and clouded brow ; 
but she shook off these equivocal dispositions as soon as 
she found herself again in the family circle, and was all 
amiability. 

Towards Monsieur de Lucan particularly she showed 
herself most agreeable ; feeling, probably, that she had 
many amends to make in that direction. She went so 


176 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


far as to take up a great deal of his time without much 
discretion, and to call him a little too often in requisition 
for walks or rides, for tapestry drawings, for playing 
duets with her, sometimes for nothing, simply to disturb 
him, standing in front of liis windows, and asking him, in 
the midst of his reading, all sorts of burlesque questions 
All this was charming ; Monsieur de Lucan lent himself 
to it with the utmost good-nature, and did not surely de- 
serve great credit for doing so. 

About this time, the Baroness de Pers came to spend 
three days with her daughter. She was at once advised, 
with full particulars, of the miraculous change that had 
taken place in Julia’s character, and of her behavior tow- 
ards her step-father. On witnessing the gracious atten- 
tions which she lavished upon Monsieur de Lucan, 
Madame de Pers manifested the liveliest satisfaction, in 
the midst of which, however, could be seen at times 
some slight traces of her former prejudices against her 
grand-duaghter. 

The day before the expected departure of the baroness, 
some of the neighbors were invited to dinner for her 
gratification, for she had but very little faste for the inti- 
macy of family life, and was passionately fond of strang- 
ers. For want of time to do any better, they gave her 
for company, the cure of Yastville, the local physician, 
the receiver of taxes, and recorder of deeds, all of whom 
were tolerably frequent guests at the chateau, and great 
admirers of Julia. It was doubtless not a great deal; it 
was enough, however, to furnish to the baroness an oc- 
casion for wearing one of her handsome dinner-dresses. 

Julia, during the dinner, seemed to make it a point to 
effect the conquest of the cure, a simple old man, who 


‘ JULIA BE TBEGCEUIt: 


177 


yielded to liis fair neighbor’s fascinations with a sort of 
joyous stupor. She made him eat, she made him drink, 
she made him lan^h. 

o 

What a little serpent she is, isn’t she. Monsieur le 
Cure ? ” said the baroness. 

She is very lovely,” said the cure. 

Enough to make one shudder,” rejoined the baroness. 

In the evening, after waltzing for a little while around 
the room, Julia, accompanied by her husband, sang in 
her beautiful, grave, voice, some unpublished melodies 
and national songs she had brought back from Italy. One 
of these tunes having reminded her of a sort of tarentella 
she had seen danced by some w^omen at Procida, she 
requested her husband to play it. She was explaining at 
the same time, with much animation, how this tarentella 
was danced, giving a rapid outline of the steps, the gest- 
ures and the attitudes ; then, suddenly carried away by 
the ardor of her narrative : 

^^Wait a moment, Pierre,” she said, I am going to 
dance it. . . . That will be much more simple.” 

She lifted the long train of her dress, which impeded 
her movements, and requested her mother to loop it up 
with pins. In the meantime she w'as right busy herself : 
there were on the mantel-piece, and on the consoles, vases 
filled with flowers and verdure; she drew freely from 
them with her nimble fingers, and, standing before a 
mirror, she fastened and twined pell-mell, in her magnifi- 
cent hair, flowers, leaves, bunches, ears, anything that 
happened to fall under her hands. With her head loaded 
wfitli that heavy and quivering wreath, she came to place 
herself in the centre of the parlor. 

“ Go on now, dear! ” she said tosMonsieur de Moras. 

8 * 


178 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


He played tlie tarentella, that began with a sort of slow 
and measured ballet-step, which Julia performed in her 
own masterly style, folding and unfolding in turn, like 
two garlands, her Peri’s arms ; then the rhythm becom- 
ing more and more animated, she struck the floor with 
her rapid and repeated steps, with the wild suppleness 
and the wanton smile of a young bacchante. Suddenly 
she brought the performance to a close with a long slide 
that carried her, all panting, before Monsieur de Lucan, 
seated opposite to her. There, she bent one knee, lay with 
rapid gesture both her hands upon her hair, and tossing 
about at the same time her inclined head, she shook 
ofl: her crown in a shower of flowers at the feet of Lucan, 
saying in her sweetest voice, and in a tone of gracious 
homage : 

“ There ! sir ! ” 

After which, she rose, and, still sliding, made her way 
to an arm-chair, into which she threw herself, and taking 
up the cure’s three-cornered hat, she began to fan herself 
vigorously with it. 

In the midst of the applause and the laughter that fllled 
the parlor, the Baroness de Pers drew gently nearer to 
Lucan on the sofa which they were jointly occupying, and 
said to him in a whisper : 

‘‘ TeJl me, my dear sir, what in the world is the mean- 
ing of this new system ? Do you know that I stiJL pre- 
ferred the old style myself ? . . .” 

'‘How, dear madame ? And why so?” said Lucan 
simply. 

But before the baroness had time to explain, admitting 
that such was her intention, Julia was taken with another 
fancy. 


JULIA BE tregceur:' 179 

“Really,” she said, “ I am smothering here. — Monsieur 
de Lucan, do offer me your arm.” 

She went out, and Lucan followed her. She stopped 
in the vestibule to cover her head with her great white 
veil, seemed to hesitate between the door that led into 
the garden aud that which led into the yard, and then 
deciding : 

“To the Ladies’ Walk,” she said; “it’s coolest 
there.” 

“The Ladies’ Walk,” which was Julia’s favorite stroll- 
ing resort, opened opposite the avenue, on the other side 
of the court-yard. It was a gently sloping path contri- 
ved between the rocky base of the wooded hills and the 
banks of a ravine that seemed to have been one of the 
moats of the old castle. A brook flowed at the bottom 
of this ravine with a melancholy murmur ; it became 
merged, a little farther off, into a small lake shaded by 
willows, and guarded by two old marble nymphs, to which 
the Ladies’ Walk was indebted for its name, consecrated 
by the local tradition. Half- way between the yard and 
the pond, fragments of wall and broken arches, the evi- 
dent remnants of some outer fortiflcation, rose against 
the hill-side ; for the space of a few paces, these ruins 
bordered the path with their heavy buttresses, and pro- 
jected into it, together with festoons of ivy and briar, a 
mass of shade which night changed into densest darkness. 
It looked then as if the passage was broken by an abyss. 
The gloomy character of this site was not, however, with- 
out some mitigating features : the path was strewn with 
fine, dry sand; rustic benches stood against the bluff; 
finally, the grassy banks that sloped down into the ravine 
were dotted with hyacinths, violets, and dwarf roses 


180 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


whose perfume rose and lingered in that shaded ally like 
the odor of incense in a church. 

It was then about the end of July, and the heat had 
been overpowering during the day. After leaving the 
atmosphere of the court-yard, still aglow with the fires of 
the setting sun, Julia breathed eagerly the cool air of the 
woods and of the brook. 

“ Dieu! how delightful this is ! ” she said. 

“ But I am afraid this may be a little too delightful,” 
said Lucan ; allow me . . . . ” 

And he wound up in a double fold around her neck 
the fioating ends of her veil. 

“ What ! do you value my life, then ? ” she said. 

“ Most undoubtedly.” 

“ That’s magnanimous ! ” 

She walked a few steps in silence, resting lightly upon 
the arm of her companion, and rocking, in her peculiar 
way, her graceful figure. 

“ Your good cure must take me for a species of demon,” 
she added. 

“He is not the only one,” said Lucan, with ironical 
coldness. 

She laughed a short and constrained laugh ; then, after 
another pause, and while continuing to walk with down- 
cast eyes : 

“You must certainly hate me a little less now; say, 
don’t you ? ” 

“ A little less.” 

“ Be serious, will you ? I know that I have made you suf- 
fer a great deal. Are you beginning to forgive me now?” 

Her voice had assumed an accent of tenderness quite 
unusual to it, and which touched Monsieur de Lucan. 


JULIA BE TUEGCEUB: 


181 


“ I forgive you with all my heart, my child,” he replied. 

She stopped, and grasping his two hands ; 

“ True ? We wdll not hate each other any more ? ” she 
said, in a low and apparently timid tone. “You love me 
a little ? ” 

“ Thank you,” said Lucan, with grave emotion ; “ thank 
you ; I love you very much.” 

As she was drawing him gently toward her he clasped 
her in a frank and affectionate embrace, and pressed his 
lips upon the forehead she was holding up to him ; but at , 
the same instant he felt her supple figure stiffen ; her 
head rolled back; then she sank bodily, and slipped in his 
arms like a fiower whose stem has suddenly been mowed 
down. 

There was a bench within two steps ; he earned her 
there, but after laying her upon it, instead of affording her 
the required assistance, he remained in an attitude of 
strange immobility before tliat lovely and lielpless form. 
A long silence followed, broken only by the gentle and 
monotonous ripple of the brook. Shaking off his stupor 
at last. Monsieur de Lucan called out several times in a 
loud and almost harsh voice : 

“Julia! Julia!” 

As she remained motionless still, he ran down into the 
ravine, took some water in the hollow of his hand, and 
bathed her temples with it. In the course of a minute or 
two, he saw her eyes opening in the darkness, and he 
helped her raise her head. 

“ What is it ? ” she said, looking at him with a wild ex- 
pression ; “ what has happened, sir % ” 

“ Why, you fainted,” said Lucan, laughing. 

“ Fainted ? ” repeated Julia. 


182 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


Of course; that’s just what I feared; you must have 
been benumbed by the cold. Can you walk ? Come, try.” 
“ Perfectly well,” she said, rising and taking his arm. 
Like all those who. experience sudden prostration, Julia 
remembered, but in a very indistinct manner, the circum- 
stance that had brought about her fainting. 

In the meantime they had resumed their walk slowly 
in the direction of the chateau. 

“ Fainted ! ” she repeated gayly ; “ mon Dieu ! how 
perfectly ridiculous ! ” 

Then, with sudden animation : 

“ But what did I say ? Did I speak at all ? ” 

‘‘ You said, ‘ I am cold ! ’ and away you went ! ” 

‘-Just like that ? ” 

“ Just like that.” 

“ Did you think I was dead ? ” 

“ I did hope for a moment that you were,” said Lucan 
coldly. 

“ How horrid of you ! . . . But we were talking before 
that. What were we saying ? ” 

“We were making a pact of amity and friendship.” 
“Well! it doesn’t look much like it now, Monsieur de 
Lucan ! ” 

“ Madame ? ” 

“ You seem positively angry with me because I fainted.” 
“ Of course I am. . . . In the first place, I don’t like 
that sort of adventures, . . and then, it is wholly your 
own fault : . . . you are so imprudent, so unreasonable I ” 
“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! . . . Don’t you want a switch ? ” 
And as the lights of the chateau were coming into sight : 
“ Apropos, don’t trouble mother with any of that non- 
sense, will you ? ” 


JULIA BE TBEGCEUR. 


183 


“ Certainly not ; you may rest easy on that score.” 

“ You are just as cross as you can be, you know ? ” 

“Probably I am; but I have just spent there a few 
minutes so very painful. ...” 

“ I pity you with all my heart,” said Julia dryly. 

She threw off her veil in the vestibule, and returned to 
the parlor. 

The Baroness de Pers, who was to leave early the next 
day, had already retired. Julia performed some four 
handed pieces on the piano with her mother. Monsieur 
de Lucan took the place of the “ dummy” at the whist 
table, and the evening ended quietly. 


YII. 

The next morning, Clotilde was preparing to accompany 
her mother to the station in the carriage ; Monsieur de 
Lucan, detained at the chateau by a business appointment, 
w'as present to take leave of his mother-in-law. He re- 
marked the thoughtful countenance of the baroness ; she 
was silent, much against her habit, and she cast embar- 
rassed looks upon him ; she approached him several times 
with a constrained smile and confidential manner, but 
confined herself to addressing him a few commonplace 
words. Availing herself at last of a moment when Clo- 
tilde was giving some orders, she leaned out of the cai- 
riage-window, and, pressing significantly Monsieur de 
Lucan’s hand : 

“ Be true and faithful to her, sir ! ” she said. 

The carriage started almost immediately, but not before 


184 the SPHINX; OB, 

lie had had time to notice that lier eyes were filled with 
tears. 

The matter that was engrossing Monsieur de Lucan’s 
attention at the time, and on the subject of which he had 
had a long conversation that very morning with liis law- 
yer and his advocate, who had come over from Caen dur- 
ing the night, was an old family law-suit which the mayor 
of Yastville, an ambitious personage and restless busy- 
body, had taken pride in bringing to light again. The 
question at issue was a claim for some public property 
the effect of which w^onld have been to strip Monsieur de 
Lucan of a portion of his timbered lands and to curtail 
materially his patrimonial estate. He had gained his suit 
in the lower court, but an appeal was soon to be heard, 
and he was not without fears as to the final result. He 
had no difficulty in using that pretext, to account during 
the next few days, to the eyes of the inhabitants of the 
chateau, for a severity of physiognomy, a briefness of lan- 
guage, and a fondness for solitude, which concealed per- 
haps graver cares. That pretext, however, soon failed 
him A telegram informed him, early the following 
week, that the suit had been finally decided in his favor, 
and he was compelled to manifest on this occasion an aj)- 
parent joy that was far indeed from his heart. 

He resumed from -that moment the usual routine of 
family life to which Julia continued to impart the move- 
ment of her active imagination. However, he ceased to 
lend himself with the same affectionate familiarity to the 
caprices of his step-daughter. She noticed it ; but she was 
not the only one who did. Lucan detected surprise in the 
eyes of Monsieur de Moras, reproaches in those of Clotilde. 
A new danger appeared before him ; he * vas acting in a 


JULIA DE TRECCEURy 185 

manner which it was equally impossible, equally perilous 
to explain or to allow being interpreted. 

With time, however, the frightful light that had flashed 
across his brain in a recent circumstance was growing 
gradually fainter ; it had ceased to fill his mind with the 
same convincing force. He conceived doubts; he ac- 
cused himself at times of a veritable aberration ; he 
charged the baroness with cruel and guilty prejudices ; he 
thought, in a word, that, at all events, the wisest course was 
to avoid believing in the drama, and giving ‘it life by 
taking a serious part in it. Unfortunately Julia’s dispo- 
sition, full of surprises and unforeseen whims, scarcely ad- 
mitted of any regular plan of conduct towards her. 

One beautiful afternoon, the guests of the chateau accom- 
panied by a few of the neighbors, had gone on a horse- 
back excursion to the extremity of Cape La Hague. On 
the return home, and when they had come about half way, 
Julia, who had been remarkably quiet all day, left the 
principal group of riders, and, casting aside to Monsieur 
de Lucan an expressive glance, she urged her horse 
slightly forward. He overtook her almost immediately. 
She cast upon him again an oblique glance, and abruptly, 
with her bitterest and most incisive acc^ent : 

Is my presence dangerous to you, sir ? ” 

How, dangerous ? ” he said laughingly. I do not 
understand you, my dear madame.” 

Why do you avoid me ? What have I done to you ? 
What means this new and disagreeable manner which yon 
affect towards me? It is really a very strange thing that 
you should become less polite to me, as I am more so to 
you. They persecute one for years to induce me to show 
you a pleasant countenance, and when I try my best to do 


186 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


sOj you pout. Wliat does it mean ? What has got into 
your head ? . . . I should be infinitely curious to know.” 

‘‘ It is quite simple, and I am going to enlighten you in 
two words. It has got into my head that after being not 
very amiable to me, you are now almost too much so. . . 

I am sincerely touched and charmed at it ; but I really 
fear, sometimes, to turn too much to my own profit atten- 
tions to which I am far from having the sole right. You 
know how fond I am of your husband. . . . There can 
be no question of jealousy in this case, of course ; but a 
man’s love is proud and prompt to take umbrage. With- 
out stooping to low and otherwise impossible sentiments, 
Pierre, seeing Himself somewhat neglected, might feel 
offended and afidicted, at which we would both be great I}’’ 
grieved, would we not ? ” 

I do not know how to do anything half way,” she said 
with a gesture o| impatience, “ How can I change my 
nature ? It is with my own heart, and not with that of 
another, thal I love and that I hate . . . and then, . . . 
why should it not enter into my plans to excite Pierre’s 
jealousy? . . . My old traditional hatred for you has 
perhaps made this deep calculation : He would kill either 
you or me, and that would be as good a denouement as 
any other.” 

“You must allow me to prefer another,” said Lucan, 
still trying, but without much success, to give a cheerful 
turn to this wildly passionate conversation. 

‘ However,” she went on, “ you may rest easy, my dear 
sir. Pierre is not jealous. . . . He suspects nothing, as 
they say in plays ! ” 

She laughed one of her wicked laughs, and added at 
once in a graver tone : 


JULIA BE TRECaSUIt: 


187 


And what could he suspect ? In being amiable tow- 
ards you, I am merely acting under orders, .... and 
no one can tell liow much of it is genuine and how much 
put on.” 

“ I feel quite certain that you don’t know yourself,” he 
said laughingly. “You are a person of naturally restless 
disposition ; you require agitation, and when there is none 
you try to imitate it as best as you can. Whether you 
like, or whether you don’t like your step-father, is not a 
very dramatic affair. . . . There is no room here for any 
but very simple and very ordinary sentiments. ... It is 
well enough to complicate them a little ... is it not, my 
dear ? ” 

“ Yes, — my dear ! ” she said, emphasizing ironically 
the last word. 

Whereupon she started her horse at a gallop. 

They were then just reaching the edge of the woods. 
He soon saw her leave the direct road that led across them, 
and take a path over the heath as if intending to dash 
through the thickest of the timber. At the same instant 
Clotilde ran up to him, and touching his shoulder with 
the tip of her whip : 

“Where in the world is Julia going? ” she said. 

Lucan replied with a vague gesture and a smile. - 

“ I am sure,” rejoined Clotilde, “ that she is going to 
drink at that fountain, yonder. . . . She was complaining 
a little while since of being thirsty. . Do follow her, dear, 
will you, and prevent her doing so. . . . She is so warm ! 
It might be fatal to her. . . . Hun, I beg of you.” 

Monsieur de Lucan gave the reins to his horse, and he 
started like the wind. Julia had already disappeared un- 
der cover of the woods. He followed her track; but 


188 


THE SPHINX; OB, 


among the timber, the roots and the roughness of the 
ground somewhat checked his speed. At a short dis- 
tance, in the centre of a narrow clearing, the labor of ages 
and the filtrations of the soil had hollowed out one of 
those mysterious fountains whose limpid water, moss- 
grown banks, and aspect of deep solitude delight the im- 
agination, and give rise to so many poetic legends. When 
Monsieur de Lucan was able once more to see Julia, she 
had alighted from her horse. The admirably trained ani- 
mal stood quietly two or three steps away, browsing the 
young foliage, while his mistress, down on her knees and 
stooping over the edge of the spring, was drinking from 
her hands. 

Julia, I beg of you ! ” exclaimed Monsieur de Lucan 
in an imploring tone. 

She started to her feet with a sort of elastic spring, and 
greeted him gayly. 

“ Too late, — sir ! ” she said ; but I only drank a few 
drops, just a few little wee drops, I assure you ! ” 

You must really be out of your mind ! ” said Lncan 
who was by this time quite close to her. 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

She was shaking her beautiful white hands, which had 
served her for a drinking-cup, and which seemed to throw 
off a shower of diamonds. 

“ Give me your handkerchief ! ” 

Lucan handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her 
hands gravely ; then, as she returned the handkerchief 
with her right hand, she raised herself on tiptoe and held 
her left hand up to the level of his face : 

“ There ! now ; don’t scold any more ! ” 

Lucan kissed the hand. 


‘ ‘ JULIA BE TREG (EUR. 


189 


“ The other now,” she said again. Please don’t turn 
so pale, sir ! ” 

Monsieur de Lucan affected not to have heard these 
last words, and came down abruptly from his horse. 

“ I must help you to mount,” he said in a dry and 
harsh voice. 

She was putting on her gloves with downcast look. 
Suddenly raising her head and looking at him with fixed 
gaze : 

“ What a miserable wretch I am, am I not ? ” she 
said. 

“ N^o,” said Lucan ; “but what an unhappy being ! ” 

She leaned against one of the trees that sliaded the 
spring, her head partially thrown back and one hand over 
her eyes. 

“ Come ! ” said Lucan. 

She obeyed, and he assisted her to get on her horse. 
They rode out of tlie wood without uttering another 
word, made their way to the road, and soon overtook the 
cavalcade. 

As soon as he had recovered from the anguish of that 
scene. Monsieur de Lucan did not hesitate to think that 
the departure of Julia and of her husband must be the 
immediate and inevitable consequence of it ; but when 
he came to seek some means of bringing about their sud- 
den departure, his mind became lost in difficulties that he 
could not solve. What motive could he indeed offer to 
justify, in the eyes of Clotilde and of Monsieur de Moras, 
a determination so novel and so unexpected ? It was now 
the middle of August, and it had been agreed for a long 
time that the entire family should return to Paris on the 
first of September. The very proximity of the term 


190 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


fixed upon for the general departure would only serve to 
make the pretext invoked to explain this sudden separa- 
tion appear more unlikely. It was almost impossible 
that it should not awaken in the mind of Clotilde, and in 
that of the count, irreparable suspicions and a light fatal 
to the happiness of both. The remedy seemed indeed 
more to be dreaded than the evil itself ; for, if the evil 
was great, it was at least unknown to -those whose lived 
and whose hearts it would have shattered, and it could 
still be hoped that it might remain so forever. Monsieur 
de Lucan thought for a moment of going away himself ; 
but it was still more impossible to justify his departure 
than it was that of Julia’s. 

All these reflections being made, he resolved to arm 
himself with patience and courage. Once in Paris, sepa- 
rate dwellings, less frequent intercourse, the obligations 
of the world, and the activity of life, would doubtless 
afi^ord first relief and then a peaceful solution to a pain- 
ful and formidable situation which it was henceforth im- 
possible for him not to view in its true light. He relied 
upon himself, and also upon Julia’s natural generosity, for 
reaching without outburst and without rupture the ap- 
proaching term that was to put an end to their life in 
common and to its incessant perils. It ought not to be 
impossible to conjure, for the short period of two weeks 
more, the explosion of a storm that liad been brewing for 
months without revealing its lightning. He was forget- 
ting with what frightful rapidity the maladies of the 
soul, as well as those of the body, after reaching slowly 
and gradually certain fatal stages, suddenly precipitate 
tlieir progress and their ravages. 

Monsieur de Lucan asked himself whether he should 


“ JULIA BE TBECCEUB: 


191 


not inform Julia of tlie conduct lie liad resolved to follow, 
and of the reasons that had dictated it ; but every shadow 
of an explanation between them appeared to him emi- 
nently improper and dangerous. Their confidential un- 
derstanding upon such a subject would have assumed an 
air of complicity which was repugnant to all his senti- 
ments of honor. Despite the terrible light that had 
flashed forth, there still remained between them some- 
thing obscure, undecided, and unconfessed that he 
thought best to preserve at any cost. Far, therefore, 
from seeking opportunities for some private interview, 
he avoided them all from that moment with scrupulous 
care. Julia seemed penetrated with the same feeling of 
reserve, and anxious to the same degree as himself to 
avoid any tete-a-tete, while striving to save appearances : 
but in that respect she did not dispose of that power of 
dissimulation which Lucan owed to his natural and ac- 
quired firmness. He was able, without visible effort, to 
hide under ids habitual air of gravity the anxieties that 
consumed him. Julia did not succeed, without an almost 
convulsive constraint, in carrying \Yffh bold and smiling 
countenance the burden of her thought. To the only 
witness who knew the secret of her struggles, it was a 
poignant spectacle to behold the gracious and feverish 
animation of which the unhappy child sustained the ap- 
pearance with so much difficulty. He saw her sometimes 
at a distance, like an exhausted comedienne, retiring to 
some isolated bench in the garden, and ^^irly panting 
with her hand pressing upon her bosom, as if to keep 
down her rebellious heart. He felt then, in spite of all, 
overcome with immense pity in presence of so much 
beauty and so much misery. 


192 


TEE SPHINX; OR, 


Was it only pity? 

The attitude, the words, the looks of Clotilde and of 
Julia’s husband were at the same time, for Monsieur de 
Lucan, the object of constant and uneasy observation. 
Clotilde had evidently not conceived the slightest alarm. 
The gentle serenity of her features remained unaltered. 
A few oddities, more or less, in Julia’s ways did not con- 
stitute a sufficient novelty to attract her particular atten- 
tion. Her mind, moreover, was too far av^ay from the 
monstrous abysses yawning at her side : she might have 
stepped into them and been swallowed up, before she 
had suspected their existence. 

The blond, placid, and handsome countenance of the 
Count de Moras retained at all times, like Lucan’s dark 
face, a sort of sculptural , firmness. It was, therefore, 
rather difficult to read upon it the impressions of a soul 
which was naturally strong and self-control ling. On one 
point, however, that soul had become weak. Monsieur 
de Lucan was not ignorant of the fact ; he was aware of 
the count’s ardent love for Julia, and of the sickly sus- 
ceptibility of his passion. 

It seemed unlikely that such a sentiment, if it were seri- 
ously set at defiance, should not betray itself in some vio- 
lent or at least perceptible exterior sign. Monsieur de 
Lucan, in reality, was unable to observe any of these 
dreaded symptoms. If he did occasionally surprise a 
fugitive wrinkle on his brow, a doubtful intonation, a fugi- 
tive or absent glance, he miglit believe at most in some 
return of that vague and chimerical jealousy with which 
he knew the cQunt to have been long tormented. Besides, 
he saw him carrying into their family circle the same im- 
passive and smiling face, and he continued to receive from 


^^JVLIA BE TMEGCEUR. 


193 


Iiim the same tokens of cordiality. Oppressed neverthe- 
less by his legitimate scruples of loyalty and friendship, 
he had for one moment the mad temptation of revealing 
to the count the trial that was imposed upon them ; but 
wliile relieving his own heart, would not such a delicate 
and cruel confession break the heart of his friend ? And, 
moreover, would not such a pretended act of loyalty, in- 
volving the betrayal of a woman’s secret, be tainted with 
cowardice and treason ? 

It was necessary, therefore, amid so many dangers and 
so much anxiety, to sustain alone, and to the end, the 
weight of that trial, more complicated and more perilous 
still, perhaps, than Monsieur de Lucan was willing to ad- 
mit to himself. 

It was to come to an end much sooner than he could 
possibly have anticipated. 

Clotilde and her husband, accompanied by Monsieur 
and Madame de Moras, went one day, in the carriage, to 
visit the ruins of a covered gallery which is one of the 
rarest of druidical antic|uities in the country. These 
ruins lay at the back of a picturesque little bay, scooped 
out in the rocky wall that borders the eastern shore of 
the peninsula. Their shapeless masses are strewn over 
one of those grass-clad spurs that extend here and there 
to the foot of the cliff like giant buttresses. They are 
readied, despite the steepness of the hill, by an easy, wind- 
ing road that leads, with long, meandering turns, down 
to the yellow, sandy beach of the little bay. Clotilde 
and Julia made a sketch of the old Celtic temple while 
the gentlemen were smoking ; then they amused them- 
selves for some time watching the rising waves spreading 
upon the sand its fringes of foam. It was agreed to re- 


194 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


/ 


turn to the top of the hill on foot in order to relieve the 
horses. 

The carriage, on a sign from Lucan, started ahead. 
Clotilde took the arm of Monsieur de Moras, and they 
began ascending slowly the sinuous road. Lucan was 
waiting Julia’s good pleasure before following them ; she 
had remained a few steps aside, engaged in animated 
conversation with an old fisherman who was busy setting 
his bait in the hollow of the rocks. She turned towards 
Lucan, and slightly raising her voice : 

“ He says there is another path, much shorter and quite 
easy, close by here, along the face of the cliff. I am 
strongly inclined to take it and avoid that tiresome 
road.” 

“ Believe me, do nothing of the kind,” said Lucan ; 
what is a very easy path for the country people may 
prove a very arduous one for 3’ou and even for me.” 

After further conference with the fisherman : 

He says,” rejoined Julia, that there is really no dan- 
ger, and that children go up and down that way every 
day. He is going to guide me to the foot of the path, 
and then I’ll only have to go straight up. Tell mother 
I’ll be up there as soon as you all are.” 

Your mother will be dreadfully anxious.” 

Tell her there is no danger.” 

Lucan, giving up the attempt to resist any longer a 
fancy that was growing impatient, went up to the foot- 
man who carried Julia’s album and shawl ; he requested 
him to reassure Clotilde and Monsieur de Mo ras, who had 
already disappeared behind one of the angles of the road; 
then returned to Julia. 

“ Whenever you are ready,” he said. 


JULIA BE TUEGCEUB. 


195 


You are coming with me ? ” 

“ As a matter of course.” 

The old fisherman preceded them, following close to 
the foot of the cliffs. After leaving the sandy beach of 
the bay, the shore was covered with angular rocks and 
gigantic fragments of granite that made walking ex- 
tremely painfnl. Although the distance was very short, 
they were already breaking down with fatigue when they 
reached the entrance of the path, which appeared to Lucan, 
and perhaps to Julia lierself, much less safe and commo- 
dious than the fisherman had pretended. Neither one nor 
the other, however, attempted to make any objection. 
After a few last recommendations and directions, their 
old guide withdrew, quite pleased with Lucan’s generosity. 
Both began then resolutely to scale the cliff which, at 
this point of the coast, is known as the cliff of Jobourg, 

and rises some three hundred feet above the level of the 

m 

ocean. 

At the beginning of this ascension, they broke the si- 
lence they had hitherto maintained, in order to exchange 
some jesting remarks upon the charms and comforts of 
tins goats’-path ; but the real and even alarming diificul- 
ties of the road soon proved sufficient to absorb their en- 
tire* attention. The faintly beaten track disappeared at 
times on the barren rock, or under some recent land-slide. 
They had much trouble finding the broken thread again. 
Their feet hesitated upon the polished surface of the stone, 
or the short and slippery grass. There were moments 
when they felt as if they stood on an almost vertical slope, 
and if they attempted to stop and take breath, the vast 
spaces stretching before them, the boundless extent, the 
dazzling and metallic brilliancy of the sea, caused them a 


196 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


sensation of dizziness and as of a floating motion. Thongli 
the sky was low and cloudy, a heavy and storm-laden 
heat weighed upon them and stimulated the action of 
their blood. Lucan walked first, with a sort of feverish 
excitement, turning around from time to time to cast a 
glance at Julia, who followed him closely, then looking 
up to seek some resting-point, some platform upon which 
they might breathe for a moment in safety. But above 
him, as below, there was naught save the perpendicular 
and sometimes overhanging cliff. Suddenly Julia called 
out to him in a tone of anguish. 

Monsieur ! monsieur ! please, oh ! please . . . my head 
is whirling ! ” 

He walked rapidly back a few steps at the risk of 
tumbling down, and, grasping her hand energetically : 

“Come! come!” he said with a smile, “what is the 
matter ? . . . a brave person like you ! ” 

“ It would require wings ! ” she said, faintly. 

Lucan began at once to climb the path again, support- 
ing, and almost dragging Julia, wlio had nearly fainted. 

He had at last the gratification of setting his foot upon 
a projection of the ground, a sort of narrow esplanade 
jutting from the rock. He succeeded in drawing Julia 
upon it. But she sank at once in his arms, and her head 
rested upon his chest. He could hear her arteries and 
her heart throbbing with frightful force. Then, grad- 
ually, her agitation subsided. She lifted her head gently, 
opened her long eyelashes, and looking at him with rap- 
turous eyes : 

“ I am so happy ! ” she murmured ; “ I wish I could 
die so ! ” 

Lucan pushed her off from him the length of his arm, 


JULIA BE TREOCEUR 


197 


then, sudenly seizing her again and clasping her tightly to 
his heart, he cast upon her a troubled glance, and then 
another upon the abyss. She certainly thought they were 
about to die. A slight tremor passed upon her lips ; she 
smiled ; her head half rolled back : ‘ 

“ With you ? ” she said . . . ^‘ what happiness ! ” 

At the same moment, the sound of voices was heard a 
short distance above them. Lucan recognized Clotilde’s 
and the count’s voices. His arm suddenly relaxed and 
dropped from Julia’s waist. He pointed out to her, 
without speaking, but with an imperious gesture, the path 
that wound around the rock. 

“ Without you, then ! ” she said, in a gentle and proud 
tone. And she began ascending. 

Two minutes later, they reached the plateau above the 
cliff, and related to Clotilde the perils of their ascension, 
which explained sufficiently their evident agitation. At 
least they thought 

During the evening of this same day, Julia, Monsieur 
de Moras, and Clotilde were walking after dinner under 
the evergreens of the garden. Monsieur de Lucan, after 
keeping them company for a short time, had just retired, 
under pretence of writing some letters. He remained, 
however, but a few moments in the library, where the 
sound of the others’ voices reached his ears and disturbed 
his attention. A desire for absolute solitude, for medita- 
tion, perhaps also some whimsical and unaccountable 
feeling, led him to that very ladies’ walk stamped for 
him with such an indelible recollection. He walked 
slowly through it for some time, in the deepening shades 
with which the falling night was rapidly filling it. He 
wished to consult his soul, as it were, face to face, to probe 


108 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


like a man his mind to its utmost depths. What he discov- 
ered there terrified him. It was a mad intoxication, which 
the savor of crime further heightened. Duty, loyalty, 
honor, all that rose before his passion to oppose it only 
exasperated its fury. The pagan Venus was gnawing at 
his heart, and instilling her most subtle poisons into it. 
The image of the fatal beauty was there without truce, 
present in his burning brain, before his dazzled eyes ; he 
aspired with avidity and in spite of himself, its languor, 
its perfume, its breath. 

The sound of light footsteps upon the sand caused him 
to suspend his march. He caught through the darkness 
a glimpse of a white form approaching him. 

It was she ! 

Without giving scarce a thought to the act, he threw 
himself behind the obscure angle formed by one of those 
massive pillars that supported the ruins against the side 
of the hill. A mass of verdure made the darkness there 
more dense still. She went by, her eyes fixed upon the 
ground, with her supple and rhythmical step. She walked, 
as far as the little pond that received the waters of the 
brook,’ stood dreaming for a few moments upon its edge, 
and then returned. A second time she went by the ruins, 
without raising lier eyes, and as if deeply absorbed. 
Lucan remained convinced that she had not suspected 
his presence, when suddenly she turned lier head slightly 
around, without interrupting her march, and she cast be- 
hind her that single word, ‘‘ Farewell,” in a tone so gen- 
tle, so musical, so sorrowful, tliat it was somewhat like 
the sound of a tear falling upon a sonorous crystal. 

That minute was a supreme one. It was one of those 
moments during which a man’s life is decided for eternal 


JULIA DE TREGGSUB: 


199 


good or for eternal evil. Monsieur de Lucan felt it so. 
Had he yielded to the attraction of passion, of intoxica- 
tion, of pity, that was urging him with almost irresisti- 
ble force on the footsteps of that beautiful and unhappy 
woman, — that was the point of casting him at her 
feet, upon her heart, — he felt that he became at once and 
forever a lost and desperate soul. Such a crime, were it 
even to remain wholly ignored, separated him forever 
from all he had ever respected, all he had ever held sacred 
and inviolate : there was nothing left for him either upon 
earth or in heaven: there was no longer any faith, 
probity, honor, friend, or God ! The whole moral world 
vanished for him in that single instant. 

He accepted her farewell, and made no reply. The 
white form moved away and soon disappeared in the 
darkness. 

The evening was spent in the home circle as usual. 
Julia, pale, moody, and haughty, worked silently at her 
tapestry. Lucan observed that on taking leave of her 
mother she was kissing her with unusual efFusion. 

He soon retired also. Assailed by the most for^lid- 
able apprehensions, he did not undress. Towards morn- 
ing only, he threw himself all dressed upon his bed. It 
was about five o’clock, and scarcely daylight as yet, when 
he fancied he heard muffled steps on the carpet in the 
hall and on the stairs. He rose again at once. The win- 
dows of his room opened upon the court. He saw Julia 
cross it, dressed in riding costume. She went into the 
stable and came out again after a few moments. A groom 
brought her her horse, and assisted her in mounting. 
The man, accustomed to Julia’s somewhat eccentric man- 


200 the SPHINX; OR, 

ners, saw apparently notliing alarming in that fancy for 
an early ride. 

Monsieur de Lucan, after a few minutes of excited 
thought, took his resolution. He directed his steps towards 
the room of the Count de Moras. To his extreme sur- 
j)rise, he found him up and dressed. The count, seeing 
Lucan coming in, seemed struck with astonishment. He 
fastened upon him a penetrating and visibly agitated 
look. 

“ What is the matter ? ” he said at last, in a low and 
tremulous voice. 

ISTothing serious, I hope,” replied Lucan. “ Neverthe- 
less, I am uneasy. . . . Julia has just gone out on horse- 
back. . . . You have, doubtless, seen and heard her as I 
have myself, since you are up.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Moras, who had continued to gaze upon 
Lucan with an expression of indescribable stupor; “yes,” 
he repeated, recovering himself, not without difficulty 
and I am glad, really very glad to see you, my dear 
friend.” 

While uttering these simple words, the voice of Moras 
became hesitating ; a damp cloud obscured his eyes. 

“ Where can she be going at this hour ? ” he resumed 
with his usual firmness of speech. 

“I do not know; m'erely some new fancy, T suppose. 
At any rate, she has seemed to me lately more strange, 
more moody, and I feel uneasy. Let us try and follow 
her, if you like.” 

“ Let us go, my friend,” said the count after a pause of 
singular hesitation. 

They both left the chateau together, taking their 
fowling-pieces with them, in order to induce the belief 


^^JULIA I)E TRECCEUR. 


201 


that they were going, according to quite a frequent habit, 
to shoot sea-birds. At the moment of selecting a direc- 
tion, Monsieur de Moras turned to Lucan with an inquir- 
ing glance. 

“ I see no danger,” said Lycan, save in the direction 
of the cliffs. A few words that escaped her yesterda}^ 
lead me to fear that the peril may be there ; but with 
her horse, she is compelled to make a long detour. . . . 
By cutting across the woods, we’ll be there ahead of 
her.” 

They entered the timber to the west of the chateau, 
and walked in silence and with rapid steps. The path 
they had taken led them directly to the plateau overlook- 
ing the cliffs they had visited the previous day. The 
woods extended in that direction in an irregular triangle, 
the last trees of which almost touched the very brink of 
the cliff. As they were approaching with feverish steps 
tliat extreme point, Lucan suddenly stopped. 

Listen ! ” he said. 

The sound of a horse’s gallop upon the hard soil could 
be distinctly heard. They ran. 

• A sloping bank of moderate elevation divided the wood 
from the plateau. This they climbed half way with the 
help of trailing branches ; screened then by the bushes 
and the foliage, they beheld before them a most impres- 
sive spectacle : at a short distance to the left, J ulia was 
coming on at break-neck speed ; she was following the 
oblique line of the woods, apparently shaping her course 
straight towards the edge of the cliff. They thought at 
first that her horse had run away, but they saw that she 
was lashing him with’* her whip to further acceleiatc his 
speed. 


9 * 


202 


THE SPHINX; OR, 


She was. still some hundred paces from the two men, 
and she was about passing before them. Lucan was pre- 
paring to leap to the other side of the bank, when the 
hand of Monsieur de Moras fell violently upon his arm 
and held him back firmly. . . . They looked at each 
other. . . . Lucan was amazed at the profound altera- 
tion that had siiddenly contracted the count’s features 
and sunken his eyes ; he read at the same time in his 
fixed gaze an immense sorrow, but also an immovable re- 
solve. He understood that there was no longer any 
secret between them. He yielded to that glance, which, 
so far as he was concerned — he felt sure of that — conveyed 
nothing but an expression of confidence and friendly sup- 
plication. He grasped his friend’s hand within his own 
and remained motionless. The horse shot by within a 
few steps of them, his fianks white with foam, while 
Julia, beautiful, graceful, and charming still in that terri- 
ble moment, sat lightly upon the saddle. 

Within a few feet of the edge of the clifi, the horse, 
scenting the danger, shied violently and wheeled around 
in a semi-circle. She led him back upon the plateau, and, 
urging him both with voice and whip, she started him 
again towards the yawning chasm. The animal refusing 
once more to advance against that formidable obstacle, 
Julia, with hair undone, hashing eyes, and expanded nos- 
trils, turned him around and backed him gradually to 
the crest of the cliff. The liorse, snorting, rearing, rose 
almost straight, and stood out in relief at his full height 
against the gray morning sky. 

Lucan felt Monsieur de Moras’ nails cutting into his 
flesh. At last the horse was conquered: the ground 
gave way under his hind feet, which only met the va- 


JULIA DE TREG(EUR: 


203 


cant space. He fell backward ; liis forelegs pawed the 
air convulsively. 

The next moment the plateau was empty. Ho sound 
had been heard. In that deep chasm the fall had been 
noiseless and death instantaneous. 


THE END. 



BELLAH. 


ivi 



B B L L A H. 


I. 

“ That knight yon see yonder with gilded armor — ’tis the valiant 
Laurcalco, Lord of the Silver Bridge ; that other is the redoubtable 
Micocolembo, Grand-duke of Quirocia .” — Don Quixote. 


the shores of a small bay cut out by the ocean on 
the southern coast of Finisterre, lies the small village of 

F , which, before it had become infested by artists, 

contained some very pretty women with charming cos- 
tumes. Unfortunately, artists came ; the women of 

F learned that they had much color and style — in 

short, that they were picturesque ; and so they begin to 
wear awkwardly their national garments, and to seem ill 
at ease under the maternal caps. 

In the yea^ of grace 1795, the happy calm enjoyed by 
this little village, placidly seated between the ocean and 
the Revolution, was a phenomenon worthy of note. For- 
gotten, as it were, by the Republic, which had respected 
their barks, their wives, and their houses, the worthy in- 
habitants of F had themselves almost ‘forgotten the 

Republic. It was not, therefore, without a good deal of 
surprise and some confusion that, on the morning of the 


208 


BELLAS. 


twelfth of June, 1795, the good people, on opening their 
doors and windows, discovered on the Church Square the 
blue uniforms and red plumes of the grenadiers of the 
Republic. A detachment of fifty men, preceded by two 
mounted ofiicers, had indeed just entered the town. One 
of these ofiicers wore a major’s epaulets, which seemed to 
indicate that the expedition was not without importance. 
Behind the little column several saddle-horses were led 
by a Breton peasant, rigidly attired in the old national 
costume. 

At the same moment the worthy fishermen of F 

belield their perplexities further increased by another and 
equally unwonted spectacle : a frigate — an English frigate 
ill all probability — had just appeared to the south of their 
bajq evidently mauGeuvring to approach the shore as near 
as prudence allowed a vessel of that size to do. The idea 
that suggested itself simultaneously and at once in their 
minds, and in those of the soldiers scattered upon the 
beach, was that the frigate intended to land an invading 
force, and that the object of the expedition was to resist 
their landing. 

Prodigiously unequal as the prospecti\’e struggle 
seemed likely to be, but little surprise was manifested 
among the soldiers, accustomed as they were to the 
daring and almost foolhardy heroism which the Repub- 
lic exacted almost daily of her children. The question, 
however, was being hotly discussed in a group of five or 
six young grenadiers, whose inexperience had prompted 
them, in presence of this imminent crisis, to seek the 
advice of an old sergeant with gray mustaches. This 
personage, called Bruidoux, instead of replying at once 
to the questions of his inferiors, thought proper to 


BELLAS. 


209 


previously affirm his dignity. He took out of his hat a 
small blue, checked Jiandkerchief, spread it carefully on 
the sand, and sat down with due majesty upon this 
modest carpet. Then drawing some tobacco out of a 
leathern pouch, he began filling a short clay pipe with 
the methodic circumspection of a man who knows the 
value of, things. After having passed his thumb over 
the orifice of the bowl so as to equalize the surface of 
the precious weed, Bruidoux took a tinder-box out of his 
pocket and began striking it ceremoniously. When the 
lighted. pipe had at last been securely lodged in one 
corner of his mouth, the grave sergeant stretched him- 
self at full length upon the sand, interposed his two 
joined hands between the back of his head and the 
damp sand, and pufiing towards the sky enormous clouds 
of smoke : 

“ hTow,” said he, what was it you were doing me the 
honor of objecting, Colibri \ ” 

“ It wasn’t me, sergeant,” replied the fat-cheeked and 
ungainly youth whom Bruidoux had just designated 
by the friendly sobriquet of Colibri ; “ it’s the boys 
who say that this great big ship is going to land a whole 
lot of ci-devant,* and that we are here to prevent it. 
Do you believe such a thing, sergeant ? ” 

* The word d-demnt simply means formerly. The Republic had 
decreed the abolition of eveiy thing- connected with the old regime, 
titles, religion, etc. ; but many things could not be obliterated by a 
mere legislative enactment, and it had become customary to refer to 
all such as ci-devant, as for instance : ci-demnt aristocrat, d-deoant 
count, d-devant church, and even d-devant God ; gradually the word 
came to be applied to any and every thing that was opposed or ap- 
parently opposed to the Republic or the spirit of its institutions. We 
have retained the original word wherever it occurs. — Trans. 


210 


BELLAK 


To siicli a question,” replied Brnidoiix, “ a learned 
man might make fifty different answers. For my part, 
Colibri, I will only make two : jprimo, I believe so ; 
secundo^ I liope so.” 

At those words, to which the month that had uttered 
them imparted a sibylline authority, the young grena- 
diers looked furtively at each other, shaking their 
lieads ominously. 

“ But, sergeant,” rejoined Colibri timidly, “if we have 
come here to fight, what will be the use of the saddle- 
horses which that tall peasant with the long hair was 
leading behind us ? ” 

“ Those horses,” said the sergeant after a minute of 
refiection, “ are in all probability intended for prisoners 
of distinction.” 

“ Look ! look ! ” suddenly exclaimed Colibri, “ the fri- 
gate has come to a stand-still ! ” 

Sergeant Bruidoux, leaving his nonchalant attitude, 
•raised himself on his elbow, placed his hand over his 
eyes in the form of an awning, and examined the frigate 
attentively for a moment. 

“ They are lying-to,” he remarked ; “ and if I am not 
mistaken, they are launching their boats. In about an 
hour, my boys, the fun will begin.” 

Whereupon Bruidoux knocked off the ashes from his 
pipe, and preparing lo fill 'it for the second time with as 
much tender care as the first : 

“One tiling may be pleasant for you to know, Coli- 
bri,” he added ; “ it is that we are out of range of their 
guns. If this coast, instead of being scattered with 
rocks over a league from shore, was a coast like some 
I have seen, alongside of which a three-decker can sail 


BELLAH. 


211 


as quietly as a lady in her parlor, the frigate, you see, 
would have brought her broadside to bear on our left, 
whilst the landing-force would have attacked us on the 
right. In that way, we would have been at once fired 
upon in front and raked in flank, which would have 
made our situation really critical.” 

In the meantime, the leader of the republican troops, 
posted upon a rock, was examining through a field-glass 
the movements of the English vessel. This personage, 
who did not seem more than twenty-five years of age, 
wore the cumbersome uniform of a major of the Re- 
public with an elegance somewhat uncommon in the 
military habits of that period. The style of beauty 
stamped on his countenance, the delicacy of his fea- 
tures, his noble brow and gently pensive eyes contrast- 
ing with the firm lines of his mouth, revealed at a glance 
a man of noble birth, and would have secured him 
flattering attention among any gathering of women. A 
few steps behind him stood a young man of sc*arce nine- 
teen, with blonde hair and rosy cheeks, wearing the light 
uniform of an*aid-de-camp : this youth figured in the 
capacity of lieutenant on the stafl of General Iloche, 
and for the past few days had been sharing with the 
young major the command of the expeditionary column. 

* “Major Ilerve ! ” suddenly shouted the younger ofiicer, 
noticing that the tide was covering the rock on which 
stood his superior, “ I warn 3^011 that the tide is rising ; 
you’ll soon stand knee-deep in water.” 

The major started like a man roused from sleep, cast 
around him a surprised glance, and seeing that liis boots 
were already submerged up to the ankle, he sprang 
upon the beach, muttering an imprecation, the subdued 


212 


BELLAH. 


and discreet character of which announced refined 
habits : for a well-bred man differs from a vulgar boor 
even in the coarse expressions that may escape him 
while laboring under the surprises of passion. Then, 
pushing back the tubes of his field-glass one into the 
other, the young man began walking rapidly on the 
sand, without any other apparent object but to quiet a 
great agitation of mind. 

The anxious soldiers did not lose a single gesture of 
their chief. Suddenly an exclamation starting fi’om 
the group attracted the old sergeant’s attention towards 
the sea : he discovered then with surprise that only one 
single boat had left the frigate and was rowing towards 
the shore, whilst the noble ship was going about two 
leagues from the coast. 

They are sending us a fiag of truce,” remarked 
Bruidoux ; “ that’s what may be called prudent conduct, 
to say the least of it. You who have eyes like a stuffed 
eagle, Colibri, will you do me the favor of informing 
me what you see in that skiff ? ” 

With all respect, sergeant, I think I see half a dozen 
petticoats in it.” 

^‘Then,” said Bruidoux, “they must be Scotchmen. 
I know, in all the armies of the civilized world, but the 
Scotch who wear skirts.” 

“ Sergeant,” replied Colibri, “ do Scotchmen wear 
linen caps too ? ” 

“Caps?” said Bruidoux; “I think not. You mean 
turbans ? ” 

“ There is certainly at least one tall linen cap, ser- 
geant. I rather think they must be Scotchwomen.” 


BELLAH. 


213 


“Everything is possible,” replied the sergeant, lying 
down again philosophically; “but if women are going 
to take a hand, — good-by.” 

During this conversation. Major Ilerve, seated on the 
keel of an upturned boat, was tracing cabalistic figures 
upon the sand with the point of his scabbard, while his 
absent eyes seemed to read invisible words in the con- 
fused world of recollections and hopes. A Jiand gently 
laid upon his shoulder roused him from his 'reverie; at 
the same time a clear and almost childish voice said 
behind him : 

“ Well, this is a happy moment for you, Pelven ? ” 

“Happy! Francis,” replied the young man, smiling 
pensively, “ I don’t know. I have already lived long 
enough to know that a moment can only be called happy 
or unhappy after it has passed.” 

“ How !” rejoined Francis, questioning with an eye 
beaming with affection the melancholy gaze of his 
friend, “is not this boat about to throw into your arms 
your beloved sister % Isn’t that the happiness after which 
you have been sighing for two years ? ” 

“And do I even know,” said Pelven, “whether I am 
going to find her the sister I remember and I hope to 
see ? She has lived so long among my enemies 1 She 
learns from . everything that surrounds her to hate the 
uniform I wear.” 

“ Ho, no, that cannot be ! ” exclaimed the young aid-de- 
camp with a vivacity that suffused his brow with a sudden 
blush. “ What you have told me of her, what you have, 
shown me of her letters, is enough to convince me that 
such a suspicion is impossible, unworthy ! ” 

“And then,” replied Ileiwe, smiling at the young 


214 


BELLAH. 


man’s cliivalrons excitement, my sister is not coming 
alone. Several persons accompany her who, I am sure, 
do not love me, and yon may understand, Francis, that 
it is painful to me to see only coldness and hostility upon 
once familiar, and friendly faces.” 

“Would there be any extraordinary indiscretion. Major 
ITerve, in asking you the enumeration of the feminine 
crew of the boat ? ” 

“ In thes^ times, when politeness is one of the rarest of 
pearls, Lieutenant Francis, it is impossible for me not to 
satisfy a curiosity expressed with such punctilious pro- 
priety. I shall say nothing of Mademoiselle Andree de 
Pelven, my sister, of .whom I have doubtless already 
spoken but too much to yon.” Francis blushed again. 
“ But,” the major went on, “ you have excused that weak- 
ness of a brother. Besides that young person, the boat 
you see 3'Onder, half a league from the shore, is honored 
with the presence of Madame Eleonoi-e de Keigant, 
formerly a canoness ; she is a sister of the Mfcpns de 
Kergant, my tutor ; she is also the fiercest enemy of the 
French Bepublic that I know of, and the most faithful 
friend wLom etiquette, high breeding, and rice powder 
have retained in this ag(fof abomination. Behind that 
lad}q and at a respectful distance, 3"Ou may see a ^mung 
Breton girl who once promised to become one of the love- 
liest creatures that ever charmed the eyes of man. Her 
name is Alix, and she is a daughter of Citizen Kado, that 
tall Breton guide who brought the horses, and whom you 
see leaning against ^^onder mast. Alix w^as brought up at 
the chateau, where she lives in a sort of mixed condition : 
she is. not a young lady, and yet she is not a servant ; she 
has white hands, and can spell. Finall}^, at a still more 


BELLAH. 


215 


respectful distance, you may or may not remark a wait- 
ing-maid, English, Scotch, or ‘something else, one Mis^ 
MacGregor, who numbers heads of clans among her an- 
cestors, and whom misfortunes of some sort have driven 
into servitude. As she has but recently entered the servi ce 
of the canoness, I have never seen her ; nevertheless if 
you wish to have a description of her, here it is: she is a 
tall and clumsy person, with red hair, and who takes 
snuff privately. Are you satisfied, Francis ? ” 

“Not yet, major; for, if I am not mistaken, there are 
five women in the boat, and you have only named four.” 

“You are right,” replied ITerve de Pelven ; and he 
added, with an embarrassment th^t did not escape his 
friend, “ there is still, or at least^ there ought to be — for 
I cannot distinguish anything at that distance — Made- 
moiselle Bellah de Kergant, daughter of the marquis 
and niece to the canoness. That name of Bellah is a 
traditional one in the family, from the days of the Conans 
and the Alains.” 

“What! is that all? ’’asked Francis. “Not a word 
of praise or criticism ? Here I am compelled to think 
that the young lady must be either deformed or perfect, 
since your pencil dares not or defgns not describe her.” 

“It is always a delicate matter to speak of one’s 
enemies,” said ITerve, “ and I have the regret of number- 
ing Mademoiselle de Kergant among the most ardent 
adversaries of the cause I uphold. She is my sister’s 
friend ; I may say that she entertained towards me for 
many years the feelings of a sister; but I am now for her 
but a wretch stained with the blood of her king, soiled 
with the dust of all her ruined relics. ...” 

A minute of silence followed these words, which the 


216 


BELLAH. 


young major had uttered in a feeling and vibrating voice ; 
then he added : 

“ You will see her, Francis ; you’ll tell me then whether 
a painter ever stamped upon a more divine face the 
purity of a virgin and the soul of a martyr.” 

Ilerve interrupted himself again, and it was only after 
turning his head aside to conceal the alteration of his. 
features that he added : 

“ It is sometimes a very severe struggle. Monsieur 
Francis, that of the principles and duties of manhood 
against the cherished sentiments of childhood ! ” 

The young major, after speaking these words, rose and 
walked hastily a few steps on the beacli, wFile the little 
lieutenant remained standing where he had just received 
this semi-avowal, with moist eyes and brow shaded with 
a melancholy cloud, to which the habitual levity of his 
physiognomy imparted a touching character. 

We will avail ourselves of the brief interval which still 
separates the English boat from the shore, to complete as 
briefly as possible an exposition which is unfortunately in- 
dispensable to the simplest narrative. 

Ilerve and his sister, left orphans at an early age, had 
been bequeathed to the guardianship of the Marquis de 
Kergant, an old friend of the Count de Pelven, their 
father. The two children had found at tlie fireside of the 
loyal gentleman a fraternal place by the side of Bellah, 
his only daughter, and had shared with her the benefits 
of an education replete with severe solicitude. 

At the age of sixteen, Ilerve was sent to college in Paris, 
and only left it to enter the military school of Brienne. 
During every summer, the young man came to spend a 
few weeks at the Chateau de Kergant ; but while he still 


BELLAH, 


217 


entertained tlie same grateful veneration for liis guardian 
and the same tender affection for the two charming sisters, 
who always greeted him with tearful eyes, he had felt 
from year to year new ideas take the place of the prin- 
ciples with which his childhood had been nurtured. The 
day when the marquis heard the fatal issue of King Louis 
XYI.’s journe}^ to Yarennes, foreseeing the desperate 
effort by which the Breton nobility would signalize their 
devotion to their religion and their king, he had sud- 
denly recalled his ward. Ilerve obeyed, and returned to 
Kergant. There he spent some months in cruel anx- 
iety of mind, swayed between the powerful recollections 
of his heart and the deep convi-ctions of his mind. Then 
he took his resolution, and left secretly for Paris. A short 
time after, M. do Kergant was informed, in a respectful 
letter, that the son of the Count of Pelven had enlisted as 
a volunteer in the service of the Pepublic. From that 
day, though Mademoiselle de Pelven could notice in her 
guardian’s conduct towards her increased attention and 
kindness, she dared not mention her brother’s name, pre- 
ferring to see him forgotten than insulted. The other 
inhabitants of the chateau observed strictly the same 
reserve, thus manifesting equal reprobation of Ilerve’s 
course, though this feeling assumed distinct shades accord- 
ing to the ideas and disposition of each. 

The marquis absolutely considered his old friend’s son 
as a renegade and a felon, who, a traitor alike to God 
and to the king, deserved no pardon either in this world 
or the next. Madame de Kergant, the canoness, saw her 
brother’s former ward appearing within the narrow and 
fantastic field of her prejudices under the most incredible 
forms ; she beheld him brandishing a spear topped with 
10 


218 


BELLAS. 


a bleeding head ; she beheld him attired in an extra- 
ordinary carmagnole.^ and dancing wildly the most un- 
becoming qa ira beneath human lanterns ; she beheld him 
finally frequenting all sorts of improper places in the 
strange costume which she attributed to the sans-culottes, 
■interpreting literally that political denomination. 

For the young Bellah, there existed among the revolu- 
tionists a man born with the noblest qualities, but misled 
to the verge of crime and stricken with nameless mad- 
ness ; she felt such horror for that desertion of all his 
domestic altars, that never did the proud child wish or 
dare, from' that day, to mingle the traitor’s name in the 
most secret murmurs of her prayers. But perhaps she 
hoped in the depths of her soul that God would deign 
to read in her moist eyes the proscribed name which her 
lips scorned to utter. 

Ilerve de Pelven’s regiment joined the army of the 
Moselle just as General Hoche was assuming its chief 
command. Herve’s behavior in a fight at the outposts 
gained him almost at once the rank of lieutenant. Later, 
at the attack of the lines of Wissembourg, as his battalion 
was falling back in disorder before the formidable artil- 
lery of an Austrian redoubt, he dashed forward alone 
upon the fascines, and, by a miracle of audacity and 
luck, stood there for a minute under a shower of bul- 
lets. The republicans, brought back and electrified by 
his example, found him. lying among tlje dead bodies 
of the enemies. The commanding genei^al,' after witness- 
ing this brilliant feat, desired that the brave young man 
should retain the command of the battalion lie had just 
saved and made illustrious ; but Herv4 had not yet re- 
covered from his terrible wounds when General Hoche, 


BELLAE. 


219 


abandoned for the first time by fortune, ever smiling and 
ever ready to betray, passed from his victorious camp 
into the prison of the Committee of Public Safety. In 
him Ilerve lost more than a protector : the affectionate at- 
tentions that Hoche had shown him, taking more into 
consideration similarity of age than the difference of 
rank, gave him the right to foresee and already to reg^’et 
a friend in the chief of which he was deprived. 

It was at this time that Pelven was informed by a letter 
dated from London, that his sister Andree, Mademoiselle 
Bellah de Kergant, and the canoness had emigrated to 
England, by order and with the assistance of the mar- 
quis ; as to the marquis himself, Andree’s letter made no 
mention of him. Herve soon had the painful explanation 
of this reserve, wlien he saw, soon after. Monsieur de- 
Kergant’s name figuring among those of the royalist chiefs 
=who made in the West such a powerful diversion to the 
frontier wars of France. From that day forth, the young 
otficer received at close intervals letters from his sister ; 
the mystery of this correspondence, which could only be 
kept up through devious ways, impaired the confidence 
which the converted patrician had gained at first in the 
republican army, and prevented him from advancing 
beyond the rank he had conquered with his first steps. 

'The unpleasantness of this doubtful situation had fur- 
ther intensified the irresistible melancholy with which 
Ilerv^ had long since felt himself overcome. He had not, 
indeed, known the full extent of his sacrifice until after 
he had consummated it. Then only had his feelings, freed 
from the tumult of his irresolutions, appeared to him in 
all their sincerity. He had discovered, by the unswerving 
fidelity of his memory, the more than fraternal impres- 


220 


BELLAE, 


sioTi which the features of Mademoiselle de Kergant had 
left liim as an avenging souvenir. If Ilervd had for a 
moment cherished any doubts as to the manner in which 
,Bellah must have judged his conduct, Andree’s letters 
, would have sufficiently edified him on that subject. Not 
only did Mademoiselle de Kergant never add to her 
friend’s letters one word of politeness for the man who 
had so long been a brother to her, but it was, moreover, 
evident that Andree herself was bound in that respect by 
some inflexible prohibition. So at least Herve judged by 
the curtness of this invariable postscript : “ Bellah is 
well.” Once only, Andree ventured to extend the limits 
of this cruel bulletin, and after the usual formula, “ Bellah 
is well I ” Ilerve was surprised to read these words : 
“ She is beautiful as a saint.” It would be difficult to ex- 
plain why this little supplement, so womanlike in itself, 
irritated Herve to that extent that he began to take for 
hatred the violent sentiment which the thought of Made- 
moiselle de Kergant excited in his heart. 

In the meantime, the ninth of Thermidor had restored 
General Iloche to his country. Called soon after to the 
command of the coast of Brest, he recruited his forces 
among several corps detached from the army of the North. 
The 60th half-brigade, in which Pelven served, was the 
first that Iloche thought of claiming, and Plerve returned 
under arms to his native land. lie found in great favor, 
near the general, the young man we know under the name 
of Francis. According to the mysterious gossip of the 
staff, the still young -mother of the child had met the re- 
])ablican general in prison, and had recommended her son 
to him, as she was leaving for the terrible tribunal whence 
no one ever returned. Whether simple compliance with 


BELLAH. 


221 


the wishes of a dying mother, or recollection of a tenderer 
feeling, it is certain that the general entertained a deep 
affection for the young man. 

One winter day in the year 1794, Hoche, returning to 
his^hpad-qnarters with an escort of three battalions, was 
attj^ked on the banks of the Yilaine by Stofflet’s Whites. 
Frcftn the summit of a mound where he kept himself dur- 
ing the fight, lie suddenly saw his young aid-de-camp car- 
ried off almost at his feet by five or six partisans. At 
the same instant, a republican oflScer, holding his reins 
between his teeth, rushed upon the hostile group who were 
dragging away the brave boy, and lifting the prisoner 
by his coat-collar, brought back this living trophy to 
the foot of the eminence, amid the applause of the whole 
staff. By this chivalrous prowess, Iler'^e had strengthened 
with a feeling of keen gratitude the friendly interest that 
Iloche manifested for him. As to Francis, he had con- 
ceived for his rescuer a passionate and enthusiastic affec- 
tion. • 

A few weeks later, the first pacification of La Yendee 
and Brittany was signed. Herve then received from his 
sister a letter requesting him to obtain for her and her 
companions in emigration the permission of returning to 
France ; she asked, besides, that an escort of republican 
soldiers should protect them as far as Kergaut against the 
chouans opposed to the pacification, who might wish to 
avenge upon them the share which the marquis had taken 
in that happy result. Notwithstanding the little confi- 
dence he placed in that incomplete peace, Hoche did not 
imagine that the presence of two or three women could 
increase the fresh dangers which Brittany might be 
preparing for the Republic. He did not, therefore, hesi- 


222 


BELLAH. 


tate to make that innocent concession to a man to whom 
he was personally indebted, and whose character inspired 
him with absolute confidence. 

The reader knows now the motives that brought to the 

village of F the detachment of republican grenadiers 

we liave left there but too long. 

The English boat was now close upon the shore ; she 
was entering, with the help of the fiood-tide, a small cove 
formed at the base of the beach by a group of rocks. 
Ilerve and Francis approached the rocks to assist in the 
landing, while the soldiers gathered curiously a few steps 
behind them. Alone, Sergeant Bruidoux had remained 
far from there, stretched on his back, watching the flight 
of the sea-gulls, and protesting by his contemptuous' atti- 
tude against the diplomatic scene that threatened to give 
the lie to his prophetic lore. When the boat had come 
within a few feet of the rocks, the young midshipman in 
command rose, and, bowing politely to Ilerve, inquired 
whether he had any documents wherewith to prove his 
right to receive the passengers at present under his charge. 

‘‘ Why, sir,” interrupted sharply a woman’s voice in the 
boat, assure you that it is my brother ! ” 

Ilerve made a friendl}^ sign to the pretty girl who had 
just spoken ; then, taking a paper from his pocket, he 
stuck it on the point of his sword, and held it out to the 
midshipman. The latter then read aloud the commission, 
which was couched in tlie following terms : “ In pursu- 
ance of the powers confided to me by the National Con- 
vention, I hereby authorize to return and tofreety sojourn 
upon tlie territory of the Eepublic i\\Q citoyennes^lQowoYQ 
Kergant, spinster and of age, ci devant a canoness ; Bellah 
Kergant and Andree Pel veil, spinsters and minors, accom- 


BELLAH. 


223 


\ 

panied by the citoyerines Alix Kado and MacGregor, their 
officious attendants. [Signed] Hoche.” 

Daring the reading of this document, Madame Eleonore 
de Kergant thought proper to shrug her shoulders several 
times, and when it was over, she took the paper from 
the midshipman’s hand, after which the boat came along- 
side the rocks. Eluding Herve’s politeness, the canoness 
jumped ashore, dropping a Pompadour curtsey; then 
turningly hastily around, she offered her hand in turn to 
each of her companions in exile. Whether by chance 
or through premeditated cruelty on the part of Madame 
de Kergant, it was Andree who landed last. 

Brother ! ” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around 
Herve’s neck and wiping with her blonde curls the tears 
that bathed her burning face, here you are, then ! here 
you are at last! And, mon Dieu ! here you are just as I 
left you. . . . Isn’t it funny, Bellah ? I was afraid to 
find him with his hair all gray 1 ” 

But, my dear child,” said Herve, laughing, think 
that it is only two years since we parted.” 

“ Only I ” rejoined Bellah ; “ I think that’s quite long 
enough ; two years 1 ” 

“Much too long, certainly, but not long enough to 
make an old man of a young one.” 

“ Well, I am sure I am very glad ; but I really 
thought so,” said Andree, laughing; then kissing her 
brother once more, she took his arm to walk up to the 
village. The canoness, on her side, had hurriedly seized 
Bellah’s arm, as if to foil any attempt at politeness 
of which the republican officer might have conceived 
the rash intention. 

A few steps farther on, the Breton guide was seated on 


224 


BELLAH, 


the gunwale of a boat, holding his daughter’s hands 
in his own, and speaking to her gravely in the antique 
language of his ancestors. Alix’s severe style of beauty 
was further enhanced by the elegance of her national 
costume. The regular majesty of her features, lighted 
by large black eyes, was admirably set off by her tall 
Breton cap, whose broad white wings were looped up and 
fastened over the top of the head. Nothing in Alix’s 
attitude or walk betrayed that awkardness so frequent 
in the movements of women of the lower class. 

Ilerve could not help noticing with what splendor the 
humblest of the companions of his childhood had kept 
all the promises of her dawning beauty ; yet her beauty 
could hardly bear comparison with that of Bellah, whicli, 
though of nearly the same type, had been more refined 
by delicate culture : it was the same dignity, with less 
wild fragrance and a more exquisite distinction of form. 
Bellah looked like the second copy of a divine work, 
bearing the mark of greater care in the details than 
the first, and gaining in perfection what it might have 
lost in primitive power. 

While Major Ilerve was walking up the beach, listen- 
ing with delight to his young sister’s voice, sw^eet echo 
of by-gone years, the little aid-de-camp was moving off 
slowly, his heart oppressed with that sadness which we 
feel at the sight of a family rejoicing in which we have 
no right to share. 


* 


BELLAS, 


225 


II. 

“ Sganarelle : Ah! it is a ghost, sir. I know it by its walk.” — 
Moliere, Festln de Pierre. 

On the order of their commandiDg officer, the soldiers 
again took up their arms and fell into line. The women 
mounted the horses prepared for them, and took their 
places in the centre of the detachment, which left the 
village preceded by the game-keeper, Kado. In order to 
atford the least possible field for conjectures, Herve, in 
compliance with the general’s orders, was to avoid inhab- 
ited places as much as possible, and the little troop soon 
found itself following the steps of the gigantic guide, 
over scarcely visible paths, through marshy plains or 
barren heaths. Ilerve, leaving regretfully his sister, to 
whom the canoness had just addressed an imperative 
question, rode up alongside the young aid-de-camp, who 
was marching at the head of the caravan. 

“ Well, Francis,” he said, “ was I wrong in fearing 
the result of the interview ? ” 

“ A thousand times wrong, major, unless you balance 
in your lieart the cant of an old white head with the 
expansive tenderness of that angel, your sister.” 

“ Certainly not ; but now that you have seen Made- 
moiselle de Ker^ant with your own eyes, what do you 
tliinkof her?” 

She looks rather pleasant. Major Ilerve.” 

Keally ! pleasant. Lieutenant Francis ? You are 
moderate in your expressions, sir. And the reception 
10 * 


226 


BELLAS. 


slie gave me, are yon kind enough to find that pleasant 
too?” 

l^either pleasant nor otherwise, ma foi, for she gave 
yon none at all ; but your lister, Pelven, your charming 
sister. . . 

“ My charming sister,” interrupted Ilerve, a trifle out 
humor, “ has no need of being defended, not being 
attacked, that I know of.” 

Francis made no answer, but looked at Herve with 
an expression of surprise and mortification which quieted 
at once the major’s excitement. 

“Why the deuce,” he added laughingly, “do you 
answer me Andree wFen I am talking Bellah to you ? 
But really, now, my dear Francis, confess that Made- 
moiselle de Kergant is, so to speak, awfully handsome.” 

“Awfully is the word,” replied Francis. “I picked 
up her whip a few moments ago: As she thanked me, 
she fixed her eyes upon mine with such directness and 
precision, that I shuddered down to the very soles of 
my feet. I attempted to retort with some polite words, 
but I was unable to emit anything but a hoarse and 
indistinct growl, and I must say that I have not forgiven 
her yet. She possesses extraordinary beauty, no doubt, 
but a beauty that surprises more than it moves. What 
a difference, my dear Felven, with . . . . ” 

“ With the canoness,” said Herve quicklj^ ; “surely the 
difference is quite remarkable, and I congratulate you 
upon having observed it.” 

While talking, the two young men had gained a con- 
siderable advance over the rest of the escort, which was 
at this moment climbing a steep ascent ; the landscape 
was closed by a ridge of barren hillocks between which 


BELLAH. 


227 


small brooks ran over rocky beds. The line of uni- 
forms, undulating as it followed the sinuosities of the 
path, the graceful aspect of the female cavalcade, the 
fluttering veils, the 'white plumes waving in the wind 
over the light felt hats of the riders, — all this life, this 
animation, and these bright colors in this wild site made 
up a scene of picturesque interest that did not escape 
the two officers. 

“ See, Pelven,” exclaimed Francis, “ don’t you think 
you look like an enchanter carrying off into captivity a 
whole bev}^ of princesses, . . . and the dowager queen 
too, of course ? ” 

I fancy that I look rather more like the enchanted 
one than like the enchanter,” replied Herve. “I’ll tell 
you further, Francis, I don’t like this wild region ; I 
have but a very limited confidence in our guide ; he is, 
in Ins way, a very honest man, but royalist as the royal 
tiger himself. I beg you to watch him. There, for 
instance, what is he doing yonder, let me ask you ? ” 

The game-keeper was following at this moment the 
edge of a moor cut perpendicularly on his right, and 
stopped from time to time to push with his foot some 
fragments of rock in the invisible abyss of the valley. 

“ Why,” said Francis, “ I should say that Citizen Kado 
is amusino; himself in the most innocent manner.” 

“ The very innocence of the amusement is suspicious 
to me,” rejoined Herve. “ A man with so grave a 
character and physiognomy does not indulge without 
some reason in such child’s play. See, he is listening 
now; he has just been leaning his head towards the 
precipice.” 

“ He is listening to the sound of the stones bounding 


228 


BELLAS. 


from rock to rock, of course. I tell you that'tliis worthy 
savage has a taste for simple pleasures. ...” 

“ Hark ! ” interrupted Herve laying his hand on the 
young lieutenant’s arm. “ Don’t .you hear? ...” 

Hear what ? ” 

“ I heard a whistle, and I saw the guide exchange a 
glance with the canoness.” 

“I heard something like a whistle, or else the sound 
of the wind through the heather. As to the ogling be- 
tween the canoness and the savage, I missed it, and I am 
sorry for it; but, really, major, I cannot understand your 
apprehensions. Are we not sufficiently protected by your 
sister’s presence ? Do you think that she could counte- 
nance a plot of which her own brother would be the first 
victim ? ” 

“ She might not know anything of it.” 

“ And then, when I look at tlie powdered head of the 
canoness, I see very well that it looks like a cane-dealer’s 
sign on which it has been snowing, but I would never be- 
lieve it could harbor a sanguinary thought.” 

“ The old lady is shrewd, lieutenant, however her head 
may outwardly seem, and I have no doubt that she 
dabbled extensively in politics while in England. Such as 
you see her, I should not be a bit surprised if she had 
held direct intercourse with Pitt.” 

“ I pity Pitt,” said Francis. 

“ That may be ; but among the ideas that might have 
germed in that canoness’s brain, what would you think of 
this, for instance ? By drawing into an ambush the major 
and his escort, they would fasten upon him a suspicion 
of complicity that would ruin him forever in the eyes of 
the Republic, and in that way he would find himself 


BELLAS, 


229 


thrown back, willing or not, into the holy royalist cause, 
eh!” 

“ Hum ! ” said Francis, “that is certainly specious ; but 
they don’t know Major Herve if they can conceive such a 
^ thought.” 

“ Passion might blind them to that extent. However, 
this is mere idle talk ; I only rneant to remind you that, 
after all, we tread on hostile ground, and that it is proper 
to keep your eyes open.” 

“ Eest easy, major ; .Pll watch the guide, the queen- 
mother, and even ...” 

“Even my charming sister?” asked Heiwe in alow 
tone of voice. 

“ Ho, Monsieur de Pelven, no ; I would as soon sus- 
pect the statue of Innocence itself ; I meant to speak of 
that beautiful wild-flower, the game-keeper’s daughter.” 

It was now the middle of the day ; the caravan was 
following the curves of a path on both sides of which a 
plain of mournful aspect extended as far as the eye could 
reach ; patches of tall furze imparted alone, at intervals, 
an appearance .of culture to this Breton desert ; granite 
crests covered with black lichens cropped out here and 
there through the barren soil. Five or six huts seemed 
lost in the centre of the plateau ; but these land-marks 
of the presence of man conveyed but little comfort to the 
traveller’s eye ; they had a gloomy and wretched aspect, 
well calculated to add a feeling of alarm to the weariness 
of solitude. 

The caravan halted for half an hour in this cheerless 
oasis. In front of the hut that was nearest the road, a 
ragged boy, with haggard eye and pallid features, sat on a 


230 


BELLAH. 


rude stool ; he held out alternately each of his hands to the 
rays of the sun with a look of stupid satisfaction. 

It’s my poor boy, whom God has stricken,” said an old 
woman who had come out of the hut as she saw Herve 
approaching with an air of interest. 

Herve laid a piece of silver in the hand of the unhappy 
mother, and turned away from this sad spectacle ; but hap- 
pening to look around suddenly a few minutes later, he 
was surprised to see the poor boy engaged in animated 
conversation with the game-keeper. He was pointing 
towards the north, and speaking with extreme volubility, 
noticing that Herve’s looks were fixed upon him, he fell 
suddenly again into his stupefied attitude. 

What a pity! isn’t it, sir ? ” said Kado, passing by the 
young ofiicer. The latter made no reply, but, feeling 
some distrust for such an intelligent idiot, he took care 
not to let him renew his intercourse with the guide. 

The march was soon resumed, and the hours elapsed 
without any novel incident coming to confirm Pelven’s 
suspicions. The sun was about to set ; Francis, yielding 
to the charm peculiar to that hour of the day, was indulg- 
ing with expansive gayety the facile poesy of his age. 
He was composing, as he went along, a sort of ballad in 
the style of chivalry, in which each of the personages of 
the expedition had his part. Herve could not help smil- 
ing at the epic improvization of his friend, and at the 
character, at once heroic and burlesque, that was attrib- 
uted to himself. 

Stopping suddenly at the name of the daughter of the 
MacGregors, as he called the Scottish maid : 

“ Do 3^011 know,” said Francis, that she seems the most 
discreet maid and the best-veiled Scotchwoman it is 


BELLAH. 


231 


possible to see? I regret to say, major, that I found no 
resemblance whatever between her and the red-headed' 
caricature you gave me as her portrait.” 

I told you, Francis, that I had never seen her; and if 
she continues to travel with as much modesty, I never 
shall.” 

“ I have been more lucky,” said Francis. “A trick of 
the wind betrayed to me a graceful contour and a double 
battery of pearls of the finest water. As to the style of ' 
her figure and the shape of her hands, you may judge for 
yours,elf.” 

It seems to me, sir knight,” said Herve, laughing, “ that 
this is a matter for our squires.” 

At this moment their conversation was suddenly in- 
terrupted by a number of exclamations starting rapidly 
all along the column. It was now quite night, but bright 
and clear ; they had reached the brow of a hilly moor, 
and had begun descending its declivity ; the bottom of 
the narrow valley before them disappeared half in the 
darkness and half beneath a cloud of white mist rising 
from the marshes. Some half a league ahead, the vague 
outline of a hill could be seen emerging from the fog, and 
farther still, standing clearly against the sky, the dark 
and jagged mass of a feudal ruin. On the face of an iso- 
lated wall two ogival windows, filled with the pale light of 
the moon, Whose disk was invisible as yet, shone forth with 
fantastic efi:ulgence. Ilerve and Francis had halted first 
in presence of that apparition. The women, yielding to 
a vague feeling of terror, had closed their ranks and drawn 
nearer to the two officers. Turning towards the Scotch 
girl, who had at last partially lifted her veil : 

There’s a landscape that must remind you of those of 


232 


BELLAH. 


your own country,” said Major Herve. The girl bowed 
without speaking. 

“ Brother,” asked Andree, are we really to spend the 
niglit in that horrible spot yonder ? ” 

“ You know, dear,” said Ilerve, that I have had no hand 
in arranging your itinerary : you must take honest Kado 
to task if your sleeping-room does not prove to your taste.” 

‘‘I shall die of fright in there, I assure you,” rejoined 
Andree. 

I trust,” said the canoness in the sharp and solemn tone 
that distinguished her elocution, “I trust that Made- 
moiselle de Pelven will be promptly reconciled to that 
old chateau when she hears that it was built by her own 
brave ancestors, and that it is the most ancient patrimony 
of her family.” 

“ Many thanks ! ” exclaimed Andree. “ That’s worse 
yet. My brave ancestors, madame ? Well, the grand- 
daughter of my brave ancestors is a coward, that’s all. 
Mon Dieu ! and I, who have all their portraits in my 
head ! I am sure I shall see them all marching along, one 
behind the other, from Oliver the Big-footed down to 
Geoffrey with the Twisted Beard.” 

“ And suppose you should see them, my dear,” inter- 
rupted a voice whose singularly sweet and grave tone 
suddenly accelerated the throbbings of Herve’s heart, 
“ what could you fear from them ? You are their loyal 
descendant ; you have preserved the honor of their name, 
and fidelity to their faith. You are not the one, Andree, 
who should dread meeting face to face those who live 
and died for their king and for their God ! ” 

The young republican officer had felt the blood rising 
to his face. 


BELLAS, 


233 


‘‘ If I know the history of my family,” lie said, not 
without some emotion, more than one, among tliose to 
whom Mademoiselle de Ker^ant refers, died fi^htiiio; 

o 7 o C:5 

against the king and for his country : in those days Brit- 
tany was a Breton’s country ; to-day France is ! ” 

After speaking these words, Herve urged his horse for- 
ward in the rugged path that wound down the hill-side ; 
Francis, after having issued the orders for resuming the 
march, overtook his friend. 

“ You were right, major,” he said, “ she is no ordinary 
woman; her voice has I know not what penetrating 
sonority that captivates the soul. I wonder that you were 
able to answer her ; I would have run away.” 

‘‘ She hates me,” murmured Pelven, “ she hates me ; 
and what is worse, she despises me.” 

“ That she does not love you. Major Herve, may be so, 
though the reverse is quite as possible; but. ... Well! 
well, what’s the matter with our guide now ? There he is 
making signs of the cross as vigorously as he can.” 

Some Breton superstition,” said Herve ; and walking 
up to the guide, he thought he heard him muttering some 
prayers, and he saw him raising piously to his lips the 
medals attached to a huge string of beads. 

Suprised at this sudden fit of devotion, the young man 
laid his hand gently on the shoulder of the guide, who 
shuddered. 

Excuse me, my good friend,” said Pelven, “ but this 
path is a hard one to travel, and we need all your zeal. 
The moment is poorly selected to indulge in prayer.” 

It does not become the son of those who sleep yon- 
der,” gravely replied the Breton, extending his hand in 
the direction of the ruins, “ to say that there is no need 


234 


BELLAH. 


of prayer wlien we are about descending into the Valley 
of Groach.” 

You know, Kado, that I have never lived in this part 
of the country : I am absolutely ignorant of the mysteries 
of this valley, whose name I now hear for the first time. 

1 1 wish to know whether it offers any particular danger 
that you think proper of conjuring.” 

‘‘ This valley is haunted I ” said Kado, dropping his 
voice and lifting his beads to his lips. 

“ Haunted ! what means that, major! ” said Francis, who 
had come up just in time to catch the guide’s last words. 

‘‘ That means, my dear lieutenant, that Old Kick, other- 
wise called the d — 1, holds plenary court in this valley, 
and that you are probably going to see, sporting in the 
moonlight, Groachs and Korandons, which are the local 
names for witches and fairies.” 

“ Good ! ” replied Francis, laughing. We’ll have some 
fun, then ; we’ll ...” 

A gesture and an exclamation from the game-keeper, 
who had suddenly stopped, interrupted the young man. 
The little caravan was then about two- thirds of the way 
down the hill, and still continued to follow slowly the 
tortuous and precipitous path, which had now become a 
succession of mere rocky steps. Kotwithstanding their 
confidence in their horses, who, like all the horses of 
mountainous regions, were as sure-footed as the mules of 
the Spanish Sierras, the women and the soldiers them, 
selves, giving their entire attention to the difficulties of 
the road, kept profound silence. The exclamation of the 
guide and the conversation that followed could therefore 
be heard and commented upon up to the very last ranks 
of the column. 


BELLAE. 


235 


Kado had stopped with uplifted arm and outstretched 
neck, in the attitude of a man who is waiting until his 
ears can confirm some grave occurrence. 

What is the matter ? ” said Herve cautiously. 

I was mistaken,” replied Kado, “ and I thank Heaven 
for it ; for though I have never seen anything of the kind 
with my own eyes ...” 

The guide interrupted himself abruptly, and shudder- 
ing in all his limbs as if laboring under a powerful ter- 
ror : 

“ Ho, no ! ” he added, “ I 'svas not mistaken ; listen, 
master.” 

Pelven and all those who followed him stopped to listen. 
They then heard distinctly the sound of dull and regular 
thuds, somewhat similar to that of a hammer striking a 
wooden anvil. The blows ceased at intervals, and then 
began again with the same force. Similar sounds seemed 
to arise at once from several points of the valley. 

“ What the deuce is that noise ? ” said Francis. “ It 
sounds like washerwomen pounding clothes.” 

Yes,” replied the game-keeper in a sad and grave 
tone, “ they are pounding the clothes of the dead.” At 
the same time he bared his head, raised his eyes to heaven, 
and began reciting a prayer in a low voice. 

Herve found himself painfully embarrassed; he felt 
the necessity of cutting short this scene, wdiich might have 
a contagious effect upon the minds of the women and 
even upon the intelligence of some of his soldiers ; but he 


* The reader is probably aware that the popular American wash-board 
is not in use in France, and that, in lieu thereof, clothes are pounded, 
upon stones or other smooth surfaces, with broad wooden beetles, which, 
it is said, wears them out much less. — (Trans.) 


236 


BELLAS. 


felt great repugnance to using violent means towards the 
old family servant. In the midst of his irresolution he felt 
his arm lightly pressed : Brother murmured Andree’s 
caressing voice, “ you are going to scold me, but I am 
terribly frightened. They are night-laundresses, don t 
you think so ? ” 

Silly child ! ” rex3lied Hervc, laughing ; then leaning 
towards the game-keeper’s ear : My good Kado,” he 
said in a whisper, “ march on, I beg of you ; don’t frighten 
my sister.” 

Kado glanced for a moment at the young man as if 
undecided, and drew a long breath ; after which he resumed 
his march, twisting his beads in his fingers. Herve then 
turning towards the soldiers : 

“ Boys ! ” he exclaimed gayly, it seems that there are 
some ci-devant laundresses down below ; but you know 
that the Bepublic does not recognize them ; so then, for- 
ward ! ” 

“ Major,” rejoined Bruidoux, “ here is Colibri, who has 
some work for them with his dozen silk stockings.” 

The laugh that greeted the sergeant’s jest reassured 
Herve as to the moral condition of his troop, and he re- 
sumed his place by the side of Francis with an easier mind. 

Meantime, as they were approaching the foot of the 
hill, the strange sounds that arose from the lonely valley 
became more and more distinct, imitating to perfection 
the peculiar noise of a beetle over wet clothes, and some- 
times also the sharp ring of the wood striking on the stone. 

“ May I inquire, major,” said Francis, just what sort 
of animal they call a laundress, in conjuror’s style?” 

“ Laundresses, lieutenant, are female devils who make 
it a business of washing shrouds in the dead of night. 


BELLAH. 


237 


It is further said that they request those they meet to help 
them wringing these clothes, and that in this case the 
only means of safety is to wring in the same direction 
with them ; if you wring the other way, 3^011 are gone.” 

Ah ! ” said Francis. “ Thanks for the advice, major. I 
should like to know, now, to what cause you attribute, in 
your own mind, the ridiculous music that is afflicting our 
ears ; for here is the fog lifting, the moon casts a bright 
light over the valle}^ and I really don’t see the first sign of 
a dwelling.” 

True; but there is a part of the valley we cannot see 
on account of this big rock. A little shepherd striking 
with a stick on the stones in the path would be enough 
to produce all this noise.” 

“ Ma foi, I hardly believe it, unless you suppose at least 
a dozen little shepherds with a dozen big sticks.” 

“ Tliis valley must have an echo that repeats the sound 
of the horses’ hoofs on the rocks ; I have heard, twenty 
times, echoes as ... ” 

Upon my soul ! ” exclaimed Francis. “ Laundresses or 
devils, there the}^ are ! ” 

The two offleers had then reached the other side of the 
rock which had heretofore concealed from them a part of 
the valley. Ilerve cast his- eyes in the direction indicated 
by Francis, and discovered with utmost surprise, at a 
distance of a few hundred paces, a group of women 
dressed in white, some kneeling before pools of water, 
others apparently engaged spreading linen over tufts of 
swampy grass. A few smothered exclamations and some 
confused murmurs informed Ilerve at the same time that 
the women and the soldiers had jnst discovered this 
strange sight. 


238 


BELL AH. 


if 


“ I say ! Colibri,” said Bruidoux, now is the time to 
take your silk stockings out of your trunk.” 

Herve ! ” exclaimed Andree, throwing her arms 
around her brother’s waist, “ what is this, in the name of 
Heaven ? ” 

“ They are chouans, * my darling. I had been warned 
that I would find some of these gentlemen here. Stay 
there, and fear nothing.” 

As he uttered this pious story, the object of which was 
to substitute the apprehension of a known danger to the 
hallucination that disturbed his sister’s mind, Herve fan- 
cied that he saw the canoness making a violent gesture 
of surprise, and fixing upon him a penetrating look. That 
look aroused anew all his forgotten suspicions ; he 
leaned toward Francis and spoke rapidly to him : ‘.‘See, 
the canoness is manifesting no uneasiness whatever; it 
must be some trick.” 

“ I prefer that ! ” rejoined the youth, uttering a sigh of 
relief. “Shall we charge, major?” 

The two young men, turning again then with curiosity 
towards the valley, saw that the laundresses were going on 
with their work without apparent concern for the pres- 
ence of the republican detachment. The attitude of the 
soldiers was becoming uneasy. 

“ This has already lasted too long ! ” murmured Herve. 
“ Come, boys,” he added aloud, “ we are going to make 
them pack up their clothes. Load your guns. Ladies, 
and you too, Kado, please stay behind this rock.” 

The steel ramrods were heard ringing in the gun-bar- 
rels. Then the two officers, having formed their men in a 

* Ghouans . — The name given to the irregular Vendean and Breton 
soldiers ; sort of guerrillas, — (Trans, ) 


BELLAH. 


239 


solid platoon, began advancing over the damp soil of the 
valley. They had come within some forty paces of the 
women, when suddenly the fantastic troupe left off their 
work, formed a ring, and began dancing wildly, singing 
at the same time a sort of dull incantation, like the hum 
of a swarm of bees. Herve ordered a halt. 

‘‘ Hallo ! yonder,” he shouted, “ who goes there ? ” And 
after waiting for a moment: “I warn yon, whoever you 
may be,” he added, “ that I am not going to expose my 
men in such a silly affair as this. Surrender or we’ll fire. 
Take aim, boys.” 

“ Look out for the water,” murmured Bruidoux. 

The laundresses, meantime, were going on with their 
dance and their mysterious, chant. 

“ Attention ! Fire !” said Herve. 

As soon as the smoke had somewhat cleared and the 
soldiers had ascertained the effect of the discharge, the 
liveliest hilarity broke forth in the ranks: all the perform- 
ers in the fantastic ballet could be seen lying at full length 
and motionless on the ground. 

“ That’ll teach them,” said Bruidoux, “ to dance im- 
proper dances by moonlight.” 

Herve, however, feeling some distrust at such a com- 
plete result, ordered the grenadiers to reload their arms and 
to keep up their order of battle ; after which the detach- 
ment resumed its march, with the young officers at its 
head. They had not gone ten steps when suddenly the 
white forms that were lying pell-mell on the soil rose all 
at once, and started at a run across the plain, jumping 
and scampering with much vitality. 

Forward, boys ! ” shouted Herve. “ After them, and 
each man for himself. Come, Francis, forward with me ! ” 


240 


BELLAS. 


At tlie same time, he drove his spurs into his horse’s 
sides, and sprang forward, side by side with the young lieu- 
tenant, on the tracks of the fugitives. Unfortunately the 
soil of the valley w^as marshy, and the horses’ feet sank at 
every step in quagmires which the white phantoms had 
sufficient instinct or knowledge of the ground to avoid. 
The grenadiers rushed in disorder after their chiefs ; and 
their oft-interrupted course, to which was mingled a con- 
cert of shouts, cries, oaths, and laughter, added a fresh 
scene of witchery to all those of which the haunted valley 
might have formerly been the theatre. 

The troop of laundresses, having reached, half running, 
dancing, the extremity of the valley, began climbing the 
half slope at the top of which rose the great feudal ruins. 
Herve and Francis made renewed efforts, and had at last 
the gratification of hearing their horses’ feet striking upon 
the firmer soil of the hill. Pelven w^as a few steps in ad- 
vance of his friend. 

Major,” exclaimed Francis, “ wait for me ! And see- 
ing that Ilerve was going ahead, unmindful of his ap- 
peals : “ Take care,” he added ; “ there may be a hundred 
of the rascals up there ! ” 

“Were there a hundred thousand of them, and the 
grand chouan himself at their head,” replied Ilerve, be- 
sides himself with anger, “ by all the devils, I am bound 
to kill at least one !” 

At the same moment, the young officer reached the sum- 
mit of the acclivity, and seeing the laundresses within 
pistol-shot, he uttered a cry of trimuph : upon the level 
surface of the plateau the advantage seemed decidedy in 
favor of the horsemen. The fugitives, feeling themselves 
closely pressed, made a detour towards the right, and ran 


BELLAE, 


241 


as fast as they could in the direction of the ruins ; but 
Francis, anticipating such a manoeuvre, had, while climb- 
ing the hill, gained considerable ground in the same di- 
rection, and Pelven saw him appear suddenly two hundred 
steps from him, galloping so as to cut off the laundresses, 
who thus found themselves caught between the two 
officers. Ilerve saw them pass behind an isolated frag- 
ment of wall that rose from amid the debris of an outer 
postern ; but to his great surprise, though a large vacant 
space divided this wall from the castle, he did not see 
them reappear on the other side. Francis experienced 
the same astonishment. 

‘‘ They must be behind this wall ! ” he shouted. 

A few moments later, both, having urged their horses 
over the heaps of rubbish, came to land, one on each 
side of the isolated wall. They were able then to see 
both faces of it at once, and to satisfy themselves that 
every trace of the laundresses had disappeared. The 
two young men alighted at once, knelt on the ground, 
and began examining the place, removing some of the 
rubbish, and striking the soil with the handles of their 
swords ; but whether the night, which had grown darker, 
foiled their search, or whether they were wrong in at- 
tributing to the natural order of things the causes of 
that disappearance, they discovered nothing that could 
humanly explain the inortifying issue of their pursuit. 

11 ^ 


242 


BELLAS. 


III. 

“ My lord, I’ve been slapped.” — Moliere, Le Sicilien. 

“ This is a comedy,” said Herve rising to his feet, 
“ which I shall long regret having been unable to convert 
into a tragedy.” 

But 1 hope, major, that we are going to turn up this 
ground until we discover the hiding-place.” 

“ Such is not my intention : first of all, we have not 
the necessary tools ; and tlien I don’t fancy having my 
grenadiers shot down one by one through some cellar 
vent, nor exposing ourselves to a fresh disappointment, 
if, as I suppose, the fellows have other outlets through 
which to escape. We must simply keep a sharp look- 
out to-night so as to hold the witches in their cave until 
morning.” 

‘‘ As you please, major ; but the canoness is going to 
have a terrible laugh at us.” 

“ Let her laugh ! We’ll laugh in our turn too, at the 
proper time. Silence ! I hear our men.” 

The soldiers were indeed coming up, mud-stained and 
out of breath; they uttered joyful exclamations when 
they discovered their ofticers, and they crowded around 
them with eager curiosity. Herve took upon himself 
to tell them that the chouans had had time to go down 
the other side of the hill before he had reached the 
plateau ; he even went so far as to point out a small 
grove of pine-trees in which, he said, he had thought it 


BELLAEL 


243 


useless to pursue them. These explanations were, how- 
ever, beginning to embarrass him, when he was relieved 
by the arrival of the women and of the guide. 

Andree alighted and came to them herself, trembling ' 
on the arm of her brother, who repeated to her briefly 
the fable to which he had just treated the grenadiers. 
Then, having left a sentry at the foot of the wall, under 
pretext of having the pine-grove watched, he took his 
sister’s arm and directed his steps towards the chateau, 
followed by the whole esco^'t. 

“ My dear child,” said Herve to his sister, availing 
himself of a moment when the canoness could not hear 
him, “ do you still feel in your heart some interest for 
me ? ” 

‘^Some interest, Herve? Mon Dieu, is it of interest 
that two poor orphans like us should speak % Say rather 
aft'ection, the deepest and tenderest affection.” 

“Thank you, dear Andree; you have removed a pain- 
ful impression from my mind.” 

“ What impression ?” 

“ The impression that my sister could be the accom- 
plice of some undertaking against my honor as a man 
and a soldier.” 

“ Your honor, Herve ? that is a word upon the mean- 
ing of Fhich I fear we may not quite agree.” 

“ I will explain to you, then, how I understand it,” 
rejoined Herve sternly. “ My honor consists in serving 
these colors unto death ; and I must tell you, Andree, 
^that any project that might have for its object to make 
me fail in that duty, would inevitably turn to the con- 
fusion, the regret, and the sorrow of those who should 
have conceived it.” 


244 : 


BELLAR. 


In the name of Heaven, brother,” said Andree, look- 
ing at Herve with tliat surprised and candid expression 
which, even in the youngest of women, is often but 
shrewd deceit, “ what suspicion have you against me ? ” 

“ Against you in particular, none ; but the scene that 
has just taken place has not been, I am afraid, as inexpli- 
cable to the other ladies as to you ; I fear that it may 
prove but the prelude of other and less innocent jug- 
gleries, and that is why I tell you, in order that you 
may repeat it, that I am incapable of ever preferring 
life to the honor of dying with my soldiers.” 

On hearing these words, wdiich revealed to her the 
nature of Herve’s apprehensions, Andree unconsciously 
uttered a sigh of relief : 

Thank God ! ” she exclaimed eagerly, ‘‘ I am very 
sure that neither yourself nor your men are any more 
in danger than ourselves.” And approaching her lips 
to her brother’s cheek : ‘‘You know very well besides,” 
she added in a tone of mystery, “ that there are at least 
two of us here who place no slight value on your life, 
major ! ” 

Leaving that drop of opium in the ear of the sus- 
picious young officer, Mademoiselle de Felven started oft’ 
and disappeared through the vestibule of the deserted 
manor-house. 

The vast and irregular edifice which the country 
people called the Castle of Groach bore the ‘stamp of 
the various periods through which it had passed since 
its foundation. The main bulk of the ruins, the tall 
donjon still standing, and the remnants of a crenellated 
enclosure retained the imposing character of a mediaeval 
fortress. Some of the lower constructions offered the 


BELLAH. 


245 


indications of an architectural period still more remote, 
whilst the building with pointed gables, that formed the 
opposite wing from tlie donjon, seemed to date scarcely 
farther back than the later Yalois. This part of the 
edifice was still provided with windows and balconies. 

It was in that pavilion that Mademoiselle de Pelven 
overtook Bellah and the canoness. In the two rooms 
which were found in the best order preparations were 
made for the night, and camp-beds, which had been pro- 
vided in advance by Kado, erected for the ladies. After 
partaking in silence of some provisions purchased at 
the last village, Andree and Bellah retired to the room 
they were to occupy jointly, leaving the canoness to 
share hers with Alix, whilst the Scotch girl took posses- 
sion of a small oratory contrived in one of the towers. 

When Bellah and Andree found themselves alone in 
their vast room, dimly lighted by a lamp, they instinc- 
tively dropped upon their knees, and praj^ed for some 
time in silence. Andree rose first, and going up to a 
window, she seemed to consider with interest what was 
going on within the grounds of the old chateau. The 
soldiers had kindled fires here and there, and the vacil- 
lating fiames shone at intervals through the ogives and 
the mutilated arches: each one was preparing as best 
he could for the night. On the lawn, in front of the 
manor. Major Herve was walking alone, doubtless busy 
turning over in his head the last words of his sister, 
with that restless puerility which is characteristic of 
lovers. Suddenly he stopped and looked up at the win- 
dow whence Andree was observing him. The girl threw 
herself quickly back and began pacing the room ex- 
citedly, while crushing her handkerchief between her 


24:6 


BELLAH. 


fingers. Bellali had just left her pious attitude, and 
noticing the imiisual animation that colored Andree’s face: 

Yv^hat is it, sister ? ” she asked anxiously. 

For all answer, Andree pushed back the hand tliat 
was trying to clasp hers, and went on walking rapidly 
and torturing her little handkerchief. 

What does this mean ? ” said Bellah. Are we angry, 
— and if so, what about ? ” 

“ Listen,” said Andree, suddenly stopping in front of 
her ; it cannot go on in this way. I shall not sleep to- 
night nor any other night ; I shall never sleep again.” 

What ! are you frightened to that extent? But come, 
darling, I am with you ; your valiant ancestors are not 
thinking of disturbing us ; besides, we have a light and you 
know that ghosts ...” 

‘•Eh! what do I care for ghosts!” rejoined Andree, 
snapping her fingers ; “ wliat do 1 care for my auces- 
tors ! I wish I had never had any ! ” 

At this sharp answer. Mile, de Kergant raised her lovel;jj^ 
eyes to heaven and replied : “ But, then, what keeps you 
from going to sleep, and allowing me to go to sleep myself, 
mademoiselle ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Andree. 

Mile, de Kergant sighed, made a gesture of delicate 
compassion, and replied gently at last : “ Neither do I, my 
dear.” 

“ Your aunt is an old dragon ! ” exclaimed Andree for- 
cibly. 

“ Sister ! ” 

“ And you are another yourself, Bellah.” 

“ Yery well!” quietly said Mile, de Kergant, address- 
ing for the second time to heaven a look worthy of it. 


BELLAE. 


247 


Andree lost all patience. 

“ The idea did not come to yon,” she exclaimed, “ of 
asking my brother to take supper with his sister ! No, 
you left him at the door like a dog. My poor brother, how 
we are deceiving him. And there’s how you treat him 
besides. I had expected it of your aunt ; but you, you 
who knew how much lierve ...” 

The capricious child seemed to hesitate about finishing 
a sentence the explosion of which her elder sister’s gentle 
and proud gaze seemed at once to conjure and to scorn. 

“ I know,” said Bellah, “ that Major Herve is my dear- 
est friend’s brother, and it is because 1 know it that I 
have been able to control my feelings so far as to treat 
merely as a stranger, I, a noble and Christian woman, one 
whom 1 know as an apostate and a gentleman who has 
forfeited his good name.” 

“ Is it so ! ” exclaimed Andree. Well, as true as you 
have just obliterated with two words ten years of affection, 
the apostate and the felon will hear this moment what 
service you expect of him. He will at least know that he 
is not the only traitor here. Let me pass ! ” 

“ Andree,” said Mile, de Kergaut, “ you will not do 
that.” 

I will do it ! ” replied Andree, whose close-drawn lips 
announced a firm determination. “ You have made me 
blush for my brother ; I mean that you shall blush before 
him.” 

Bellah grasped Andree’s dress with supplicating terror 
and almost falling on her knees before her : 

On the name of your family,” she said, “ on the salva- 
tion of your soul, stay ! dearest Andree.” 

“ No, no ; you have been without mercy ; I’ll be the 


m 


BELLAH. 


same ! ” rejoined the girl, stamping the floor with a sort of 
wild excitement. Let me go ! ” 

At the same time she ran towards the door. Bellah 
drew herself np and stood motionless ; her features had 
assumed the hue of a tumnlar marble, but her fiery soul 
betrayed itself by the flashes of her eyes and in her quiver- 
ing nostrils ; she held up with a royal gesture the fore- 
finger of her right hand, and speaking with exalted solem- 
nity : 

“ Andree de Pelven,” she said, is this the hospitality 
you give beneath your forefathers’ roof ? ” Thanks to you, 
this spot will hereafter be truly accursed ; but since this is, 
serious, since this misfortune must haj^pen, stand aside your- 
self. “ I shall spare your lips the shame of a betrayal, and 
you’ll see whether 1 blush wLen calling martyrdom upon 
my own head.” 

The young enthusiast, with still quivering lips, walked 
with dignity towards the door, against which Andree was 
leaning with fixed eyes and trembling limbs. At the 
moment when Bellah laid her hand upon her to draw her 
aside the poor child ceased to tremble ; her graceful fea- 
tures became overspread with deadly pallor ; her eyes 
closed, and she sank slowly to the ground. Bellah dropped 
on her knees, received her friend’s head in her arms, and 
covering with kisses the head and brow of the frail 
creature : 

Holy Virgin Mary ! ” she said, what have I done ? 
Andree, sister ! Mon Dieu, forgive her, help her.” Poor 
darling ! Tis I, Andree ; nothing has happened ! — She 
don’t know where she is ... . How could I get angry at 
her ? Come, speak to me. “ Pll do whatever you please, 
but do speak to me, dear little sister ! ” 


BELLAH. 


249 


Andree was coming slowly back to life under this 
shower of caresses ; she opened her eyes, smiled as a child 
who wakes up, and resting a finger against her cheek : 

“ Confess,” she said, that you love him a little.” 

“ She must be dreaming still,” said Bellah. “ Come, do 
you feel better ? ” 

I feel better if you love him, I feel worse if you don’t,” 
rejoined Andree. 

Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! ” 

‘‘ Thy God shall be his God, thy law his law, whenever 
thou wishest.” Then rising quickly to her feet and throw- 
ing her arms around Bellah’s neck : “ Listen,” Andree 

went on, “ I don’t ask you to shout to him through the 
window, ‘ Major, I adore you ! ’ But you owe him some 
slight compensation after all his troubles. ^^You must 
give him something. Come, what shall it be ? ” 

“ Nothing, indeed.” 

Ah ! I have it,” rejoined the girl, snatching off dex- 
terously the white feather from Bellah’s hat ; what a 
triumph, my dear, to compel a republican officer to wear 
the King’s colors.” 

This ingenious compromise was not much to Mademoiselle 
de Kerg^it’j,.liking ; she sprang forward to recapture the 
plume ^ which her adopted sister was preparing to make 
such a treacherous use ; but Andree, generally quicker in 
her motions than her friend, had already opened the win- 
dow, and Bellali only arrived in time to lend by her pres- 
ence a more precious meaning to the light token that 
was fluttering down over Major Herve’s head. Andree 
burst out laughing and Mile, de Kergant withdrew pre- 
cipitately from the window, shrugging her shoulders with 
an air of mingled spite and dignity. 

11 * 


250 


BELLAS, 


E’evertheless it might have been thought that the charm- 
ing projectile lying at the feet of Major Herve was pos- 
sessed of some magic property ; for the young man, since 
he had come in almost imperceptible contact with it, 
seemed to have taken root on the spot where that event 
had interrupted his walk. 

He felt that they must he watching him from the win- 
dow, and he remained in positive anxiety, his eyes fixed 
upon the mysterious plume, without daring to take it up, 
and still less to overlook it. If he took it up lovingly, 
how ridiculous he might appear, supposing that chance 
alone or some childish prank of Andree’s had directed 
the feather’s flight % If, on the contrary, he walked 
away carelessly from it, did he not risk offending seriously 
the very one from whom he hoped at least that this dis- 
creet message might have come ? Between these two 
fatal apprehensions, Herve determined to adopt a medium 
course. 

He picked up the little feather with the tip of his 
fingers, not with the manner of an anxious lover, but like 
a man who finds something and whose curiosity is aroused. 
He then resumed his walk, while examining the object 
with a sort of careless naivete, as if he were saying : 

“ Why, that’s an ostrich feather ! Where the deuce can 
an ostrich feather have fallen from in this part of the 
world?” But as soon as the young man found himself, 
shielded from all curious eyes, behind the angle of the 
building, his manner changed : he raised eagerly the feather 
to his lips ; then smiling at his own weakness, he undid the 
fastenings of his coat, folded up the plume carefully, and 
transferred it immediately, in form as well as in spirit, to 
the condition of a relic. 

'3 


BBLLAH. 


251 


After having thus duly disposed of his treasure, Major 
Herve prepared to enter the vestibule of the manor, 
where Francis had sought shelter against the cool of the 
niglit. At the moment of crossing the threshold, the young 
major, prompted by prudence, turned to cast one more 
glance at the isolated fragment of wall at the foot of which 
his pursuit of the laundresses had terminated in so enigma 
tic a manner. Serve had selected in person the soldier who 
had just relieved the first sentry at this important post : 
it was a young grenadier, called Kobert, whose courage 
and intelligence were personally known to him. He did 
not see him, but at the place where his eyes were seeding 
him, he saw, above the heap of rubbish, a piece of white 
linen that appeared' to be shaken to attract his attention. 

Herve hastened to walk down the stoop again, and 
directed his steps rapidly though carefully towards the 
postern, and five seconds later he stood face to face 
with the soldier. 

Well, Kobert,” he said in a whisper, after satisfying 
himself that they were entirely alone, what is the 
matter ? ” 

“ The matter, major,” replied the soldier, speaking in 
a half frightened and half amused tone, “ the matter 
is, that it rests with us to catch the magpie on her 
nest, the king on his throne, and the courtiers and the 
whole ci-devant concern. They want to make you 
swallow as big as a cathedral, and as long as from here 
to China. You have been betrayed.” 

“ Betrayed ? How ! By whom ? Speak quick ! ” ex- 
claimed Herve. 

“ Hot so loud, major, not so loud ! This is the story : 
I was walking along quietly, keeping a sharp look-out 


BELLAH. 


m 

according to orders, on the pine-grove ; suddenly, what 
do I hear ? behind me or beneath me, I couldn’t tell 
exactly which : a great clatter of voices, like many peo- 
ple speaking and discussing. As I always like to get 
all the information I can, I hurried round and hunted, 
until at last I hit the desired spot, and then ...” 

The soldier stopped short, and remained with gaping 
mouth, making a gesture of supreme terror ; then Herve 
saw the unfortunate young man leap back and sink 
heavily upon the soil. At the same time, he heard close 
to his ears the report of a fire-arm, and receiving a 
violent blow on the head, he fell senseless himself a few 
steps from the grenadier. 

A man of athletic stature — the one who had just 
committed this double act of violence wfith such cruel 
success — left the foot of the wall, from which he seemed 
to have issued, and cast a curious look over the chateau. 
In the meantime, an individual of more frail appearance 
was leaning over the inanimate body of the republican 
officer, and feeling his head with apparent concern. 

“There is no harm done, I believe,” he said in a 
voice whose tone was remarkably pleasant and harmoni- 
ous. 

“ The shot has aroused them from their sleep,” said 
the other ; “ they are all going to run this way, and we’ll 
have a good chance on the other side.” 

As he uttered these words, he followed his companion 
through a wide aperture managed at the base of the 
wall, which closed at once behind him, so as to leave no 
trace whatever of his passage. 


BELLAS. 


253 


lY. 

“Comment vous nommez-vous? — JPai nom Eliacin.” — Racine, 
Athalie. 

At the sound of the explosion, all the soldiers, guided 
by Francis, had rushed in disorder towards the spot 
whence the signal of alarm seemed to have come. The 
young lieutenant uttered a painful gi’oan at the sight 
of his friend’s body lying motionless on the ground ; 
but his grief subsided when he was able to ascertain, by 
the light of a torch, that there was no sign of a wound on 
his person. 

‘^The hand that struck that blow,” said Brnidoux 
gravely, as he picked up the major’s hat, which bore the 
marks of a terrible pressure, “the hst, I say, that pre- 
pared this omelet is not fastened to a young lady’s arm.” 

“ We must still thank the wretch, whoever lie may 
be,” replied Francis, “ for he has at least avoided the 
shedding of blood.” 

“ My opinion is, on the contrary, lieutenant, that he 
has shed at least a good pitcher-full of it. I did not 
know what that was under my feet, but ...” 

“ Woe to me ! ” exclaimed Francis, dropping upon his 
knees again by Herve’s body; “I cannot have looked 
well ; this would seem to indicate a horrible wound.” 

“Horrible indeed,” said Bruidoux in a grave and 
sorrowful tone which was not habitual to him ; “ but yon 
are not looking for it where it is, lieutenant. Here is 


254 


BELLAS. 


the victim, and I fear he has done picket duty for the 
last time.” 

While speaking, the sergeant, with the help of the 
soldiers, was trying to lift np Robert’s body, which a 
heap of rubbish had prevented them from discovering 
sooner. 

‘‘ Dead ? Are you sure he is dead, old Bruidoux % 
is there really nothing to be done % ” 

“.Nothing, unless it be a ci-devant prayer, citizen 
lieutenant. The ball, like a true aristocrat, has selected 
the best place, and lodged in the heart. It is a pity,” 
Bruidoux went on, addressing the soldiers who sur- 
rounded him, “ it is a pity that a leaden nut, shot by 
some cowardly wretch, should so easily penetrate the 
breast of a brave man. Poor fellow! I was fond of 
him, my boj^s. He had not in him, any more than I 
have, the stuff of a general-in-chief; but around the 
camp-kettle as well as in front of the enemy, it was 
pleasant to feel his elbow at your side. He was a com- 
panion of irreproachable conduct. . . . Hem, hem! 
citizens, a tear may fall upon a gray mustache without 
disgracing it, when we are bidding farewell to a friend. 
.... Poor Robert ! citizens ... he has started on his 
long journey ! ” 

In the meantime, Francis had succeeded in bringing 
his friend to life ; but Herve’s weakness prevented him 
as yet from answering the young lieutenant’s eager 
questions. Some of the soldiers, acting under Bruidoux’s 
directions, began digging with tiieir sabres a grave, in 
which they laid the remains of their unfortunate com- 
rade. Others, forming with their muskets a sort of 
stretcher, prepared to carry their commander to the 


BELLAH. 


255 


r.hatean. They had gone about two-thirds of the way 
when the near report of a fresh explosion stopped them 
fhort. Herve made an effort to rise, but fell back at 
once, exhausted. Francis, leaving the two grenadiers 
with him, started with the rest of the troop in the 
direction of the donjon behind which the shot seemed 
to have been fired. 

The sentry placed at this corner of the ruins was 
found at his post, engaged in reloading his gun. Ques- 
tioned by Francis on the motives of the alarm, he replied 
that he had seen a procession of black and white phan- 
toms suddenly spring from the base of the escarpment 
on which the donjon rested on that side ; that after 
hailing them without receiving any answer, he had fired. 
The soldier added, with a slight emotion in his voice, 
that 'they had disappeared at once, as if the earth had 
closed over them. A heavy fog, rising from a small 
river that fiowed at the foot of the donjon, explained 
more naturally to Francis the fresh disappearance of 
their ubiquitous enemy. He could not suppress a ges- 
ture of anger, and, recommending increased vigilance 
to the sentry, lie returned to join Pelven, who, having 
fully recovered from the effect of tlie blow, was himself 
coming to meet him. The two young men, after having 
each communicated to the other the events of which he 
had been the witness, gave permission to the men to 
resume their interrupted rest. 

I have no doubt,” said Herve, as soon as he was 
alone with his friend, that all this has happened un- 
known to my sister ; for she was apprising me this very 
evening, that, to her certain knowledge, we were run- 
ning no danger whatever, and I know that she is incapa. 


256 


BELLAH. 


ble of littering a falsehood. What seems most probable 
to me is, that we have disturbed a band of chouans in 
their retreat ; and unfortunately we cannot think of 
pursuing them through this fog. But, really, my head 
is aching more than I like. I greatly need rest, and I 
am going to lie down here. Try and go to sleep your- 
self.” 

The two young men parted after having agreed to 
leave the women, and especially Andree, in ignorance of 
the events of the night, in order to spare anxiety to 
some, and not to give to the others any pretext for a 
secret triumph. 

Some three hours after the conclusion of this episode, 
the soldiers were all up, stretching their benumbed limbs 
in the bright sunshine. The game-keeper was busy 
saddling the horses with his usual gravity, while Herve 
and Francis, standing some distance aside, seemed en- 
gaged in an animated discussion. Sergeant Bruidoux, 
having removed his pipe from his mouth, modestly ap- 
proached the two officers, and raising his hand to his hat: 

“ Hail and fraternity, citizens ! ” he said. You look 
fresh as an apple this morning, major. I see with de- 
light that last night’s number one blow had no more 
moral effect on your complexion than a maiden’s caress. 
. . . And is it your opinion, citizens, that we should 
leave the old shanty before making a close survey of the 
ci-devant boudoir of the fair laundresses ? ” 

That’s exactly what I was telling the lieutenant,” re- 
plied Herve. “ Though there is every reason to believe 
that the rascals have cleared out, it would be well to ex- 
amine their den. The slightest thing may reveal to us 
the object of their meeting.” 


BELLAH. 


257 


“Yery well!” exclaimed Francis. ^^Who objects? 
But let us go all together. It is not right that you should 
run alone the risk of being caught in some trap.” 

“ And where the devil do you see any trap ? ” rejoined 
Ilerve. “ Didn’t I show you at the base of the donjon 
the door through which they escaped ? They left it wide 
open. If it is a trap, it is rather a thin one. Light a 
torch, Bruidoux. I do not mean, lieutenant, that a single 
one of our men should risk a hair in this affair. It is enough, 
it is too much, that I should already have to reproach my- 
self with Eobert’s death.” 

Allow me,” said Bruidoux, who was returning with a 
lighted torch in his hand, two others under his arm, “ al- 
low me to settle the matter for you. Let us go, all three 
of us ; if there be any ladies, well 1 they will only have 
the more cause to rejoice.” 

Llerve, notwithstanding his earnest desire of visiting 
alone the suspicious cave, consented to this arrangement, 
lest a more persistent refusal should excite tlie loyal 
sergeant’s suspicions. They all three began then crawl- 
ing down the side of the steep bluff that formed the base of 
the donjon, and about half way down they found the 
small door which Major Ilerve had discovered from above, 
and which was contrived so as not to be easily seen from 
the plain below. This door gave admission to a sort of 
dark and narrow tunnel, into whicli they penetrated, each 
with his torch in his hand. After a few steps, this pas- 
sage led them into a vaulted hall, to which perfectly pre 
served arches imparted a character of sombre architec- 
tural elegance. Torches still lay smoking on the damp 
soil : it was, however, the only evidence of the recent 
sojourn of living beings in this retreat. Semi-circular 


258 


BELLAE, 


doors led into smaller rooms, ‘throiigli wliicli the two young 
men and the sergeant continued their investigations. In 
the angle of one of these, Herve discovered, by the red 
light of his torch, the lower step of a winding staircase 
that seemed to ascend through the vault. He ran up 
these steps eagerly, but at the height of the vault he found 
a breach in the stairs which he could not clear. A close 
examination of the debris satisfied him beyound a doubt 
that this breach had been effected during the night, and 
his suspicions against the politic canoness, to whose apart- 
ment these steps evidently led, were further strengthened 
by this discovery. 

Ilerve overtook the young aid-de-camp in a distant part 
of the cellar where he had just laid hand upon a huge bolt 
that closed a sort of low and broad door, contrived in the 
wall and reached by a steep earthen embankment. By 
means of their united efforts, the two young men succeeded 
in drawing the bolt, when the door fell at once like a 
dmwbridge, and the light, fiooding the interior of the 
cellar, revealed that chance had led them to the mysterious 
Opening which had so opportunely sheltered the laun- 
dresses the night before, and which had given passage to 
Robert’s murderer. The door was formed of stout oak 
planks, lined inside with sheet-iron, and covered outside 
with a light coating of mortar that fitted closely into the' 
rest of the wall. They were about leaving the cave 
through this aperture, when they heard loud shouts behind 
them, and Bruidoux appeared, leading triumphantly by 
the ear a captive of an unexpected kind. 

It was a boy of some ten years of age, with blue eyes 
and pleasant features ; his black hair, cut square over his 
forehead, hung loose behind over his shoulders ; he wore 


BELLAS. 


259 


a long brown woollen jacket and wide brecbes. At the 
first glance, Herve recognized him, and cast at once upon 
Kado a glance of mingled reproach and pity, to which 
the guide replied by an imperceptible gesture of grief. 
At the same time, the ladies, who had come forward at- 
tracted by the sergeant’s cries, exchanged stealthily 
looks of timid confusion. 

“Imagine, major,” said Bruidoux, “that this double son 
of a laundress was sleeping like a dormouse on a heap of 
straw. His mamma must have forgotten him in the brawl* 

I addressed him, by gestures and otherwise, two or three 
polite questions, but the little rascal seems unacquainted 
with the habits of good society, and he is as dumb as a 
fish.” 

Any doubts which TIerve might still have retained, as 
to the duplicity that was used towards him, had completely 
vanished at the sight of the captive boy’s well-known fea- 
tures ; but the young ofiicer, deeply moved by the anguish 
that appeared upon Kado’s pale and contracted lips, hesi-^ 
tated to make use of his advantage. 

“My little friend,” he said to the child, “you must tell 
us the truth, or else even your age will not shield you from 
severe punishment. You have spent the night with people 
whom we have more than one reason to consider as our 
enemies.” 

“ I should think so ! ” murmured Bruidoux ; “ were it 
only the oi-devant blow.” 

“Silence! sergeant,” said Herve. “Come, boy, who 
brought you here ? ” 

“ It was the Groachs,” said the child ; “ the Groachs of 
the valley.” 

“ The Groachs ! ” interrupted Bruidoux ; “ I’ll give you 


260 


BELLAS. 


Bome Groacli, directly ! Was it a Groach, too, that pulled 
the trigger ? . . . ” 

Citizen sergeant ! ” said Ilerve sharply, “ that’s 
enough. We will only waste time questioning him ; you 
may search him, however. That child belongs to the law ; 
it has stricken younger heads, though I grieve to recall 
it ; but that’s what the heartless people who have sacrificed 
this poor creature should have thought of.” 

“Yes, yes !” said the boy, laughing, “go ahead! the 
fairy’ll manage to save me. Entre-nous^ gentlemen. I’ll 
tell you that she is my wife.” 

“ And here is probably her wedding-present,” rejoined 
Bruidoux, taking from the young prisoner’s pocket a top 
with its string. “ You would have done better, my boy, to 
be content with this game, which, as you all know, citizens, 
is not a potentate’s pastime, but simply an honest and dem- 
ocratic recreation.” 

In the meantime, the ladies had mounted their horses ; 
Kado having approached to hold his stirrup for Major 
Ilerve, the latter leaned towards the Breton’s ear, and 
whispered to him : 

“ You are severely punished, Kado, for having tried to 
deceive me, and I am punished myself for having be- 
lieved in your good faith.” 

“ Yes, sir ; yes, it is a hard trial ; it might have been 
harder, had you wished to make it so, I know. You 
have had pity on the child. Are you going to take the poor 
little boy along ? ” 

“ Were I to do my duty, Kado, I should take both 
father and son.” 

“ The child is very weak, my master. I love to look at 
him, for his mother’s sake. They say Alix looks like me, 


BELLAH. 


261 


but the little one is the living image of his mother. He 
is very weak, sir, and if he is to go to prison, or else . . 

The game -keeper interrupted himself as if suffocated 
by the, violence of his emotion. 

“ Master Kado,” replied Herve, ‘‘ 1 have already yielded 
but too much to old feelings for which there seems to be 
but little regard on your side. Can you and will you tell 
me, aloud and in the presence of these men, what is 
going on and what they are plotting ? ” 

The Breton, after casting around him a look of painful 
hesitation, raised one hand towards heaven, and said in a 
firm tone : 

The child is in the hands of God ! ” 

“ Fall in and march ! ” exclaimed Herve. “ Sergeant, I 
place the boy in your keeping; you will be responsible 
for him to me.’’ 

If that’s the case, come along, my boy,” said Bruidoux, 
taking up a long and stout leather strap which had been 
used in tying up some bundles. He passed one end of the 
strap around his belt, fastened securely the other end to 
the young captive’s body, and thus equipped overtook the 
detachment, which was marching down the hill around 
the fast- disappearing morning fog. 


BELLAK 




Y. 

“ Sire, ride forward no more ; return, for thou art betrayed.” — 
Ancient Chronicle. 

The aspect of the country through which the detach- 
ment travelled after leaving the hapless castle of Groach 
changed gradually. Earren heaths and rugged hills no 
longer formed the horizon ; the roads became better and 
more regular, following live hedges raised like natural 
breastworks, and supported at close intervals by tall trees 
laden with thick foliage ; fields or meadows scattered with 
apple-trees in bloom were enclosed within these hedges. 
At the sound of the horses’ feet, big oxen thrust through 
the thickets their meditative heads, and contemplated the 
travellers with an absent look. Here and there, through 
the verdure, small cottages could be seen, covered with a 
coating of lichen and moss. The oaks in the hedges and 
the apple-trees in the fields, drawing near in the distance, 
seemed to cover the whole country with a dense forest, in 
the midst of which tlie slender points of the steeples indi- 
cated from time to time the location of a village. 

But the feelings of peace and happiness excited by 
this rustic landscape yielded to the recent and disastrous 
souvenirs marked at almost every step by blackened 
ruins or long, tumular mounds. The prolific nature of 
the soil hastened in vain to cover with flowers and 
pleasing sights the traces of the crimes and the misfor- 
tunes of men; the fields lay fallow; those who should 


BELLAH, 


263 


hav^e tilled them were fattening the useless furrows 
with their own remains. From time to time, the travel- 
lers heard a sob or the dull murmur of a voice behind a 
bush ; they discovered women and children kneeling 
and praying, living effigies upon unknown graves. Bro- 
ken trunks, shattered branches, sinister breaks in the 
hedges, the still recent traces of desperate trampling of 
feet, the strange color of the mud in the ditches, be- 
trayed from place to place the theatre of one of those 
combats in which the glory of the victor, whoever he 
might be, was lost in the crime of the fratricide. 

The caravan halted in a village, dined, and rested for 
an hour ; then the journey continued until night without 
any incident of note save the meeting of a few republi- 
can camps with' which they exchanged the countersign. 
The twilight was beginning to mark out more distinctly 
upon the sky the outlines of the horizon, when the 
timid Colibri addressed the following question to the 
circumspect Bruidoux : 

“ Am I wrong, sergeant, when I imagine that America 
is a country where most men are monkeys ? ” 

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders with such a 
violent motion that he fairly shook the little long-haired 
captive he was dragging in tow. Why don’t you come 
along, young scamp ? ” said Bruidoux. — Let me tell 
you first, Colibri, and by way of preamble, that this 
little federalist is beginning to worry me in an extraordi- 
nary manner. As to the idea you have conceived of 
America and of its inhabitants, whom you take for 
monkeys, it would cause you to be taken for an ass 
yourself in any elegant society. . . . Will you walk 
or not, you half-rascal ? You dare pull that rope again, 


264 


BELLAU. 


and I’ll make you immediately acquainted with the 
configuration of my foot. — There are no monkeys, Coli- 
bri : it is an animal invented by priests and tyrants to 
humiliate free mankind. America, Colibri- — You are 
pulling on the rope again, you urchin ; take care now, 
for we are going to move along lively — America, my 
boy, is exactly as I was telling — Get up there, little 
Coburg. And you will be able now to talk about it with 
ease and — Yery good, my young cock ! you don’t 
weigh as much as a feather now — • With ease and 
facility, Colibri, my friend. . . . Hey ! twenty thousand 
pipes! wdiere is the chouan’s son? May the devil be 
dead if he has not cut off the rope ! Stop 1 stop the 
prisoner ! there, in the field, on the right 1 ” 

The child had indeed just availed himself of the first 
shades of the night to effect an escape of which he had 
doubtless procured the means during the dinner halt. 
He was now running with all his might across a ploughed 
field which a narrow ditch alone separated from the road. 
Bruidoux leaped over the ditch and started on the track 
of the fugitive ; the soldiers followed him, uttering 
loud shouts ; but they were not half-way across the field 
when the child had already scaled the hedge that closed 
it at its farther extremity and was contiguous to a thick 
wood. He turned around when he found himself mas- 
ter of the position, and made a sign with his hand as if 
he wished to speak. Some half a dozen guns were 
instantly levelled in the direction of the little fellow. 

What is this ? ” shouted Bruidoux in a panting voice : 
I’ll knock down with the butt of my musket the first 
man who dares fire ! Have we any child-killers here, 
now ? Speak, my jewel 1 ” 


BELLAS. 


265 


“ Take good care of my top ! ” cried the escaped cap- 
tive. Whereupon he jumped into the woods and disap- 
peared. 

“ Yery well,” said Bruidoux, getting back to the road 
amid the ill-suppressed laughter of his comrades, “ laugh 
as much as you like, my boys. Don’t somebody want 
to tickle me a little under the nose % — Your top, little 
rascal ! ” added the old sergeant between his teeth. 
‘‘ Let me live long enough to find you with beard on 
your chin ; and if I don’t make you swallow the top 
with the string and the point, and the goat and the cab- 
bage ...” 

Well, sergeant,” interrupted Ilerve, scarcely conceal- 
ing the satisfaction he felt at the result of the adventure, 
“ here you are, then, gone over to the royalists ! ” 

“ Ma foi, citizen major,” replied Bruidoux with a 
trifle of ill-humor, if you mean that I should have 
allowed the boy to be shot, order five marbles lodged 
in my head, and say no more about it.- ^ It isn’t my way 
of thinking.” » 

“ Nor mine, old Bruidoux,” said Ilerve. “I know 
^v^hat you are worth face to face with a man. As to 
women and children, we must leave them to the jailors 
and the executioners who disgrace the republic.” 

The brave sergeant, completely redeemed in the eyes 
of his inferiors by the young commander’s words, unfas- 
tened the now useless strap that bound his waist, and 
used it to admonish the merriest of the band that he 
had not forgotten their indiscreet merriment. He was 
interrupted in this pleasing pastime by the game-keeper, 
Kado, who held out his flask to him cordially, saying : 

We do not perhaps think alike on many subjects, 
12 


266 


BELLAS. 


comrade, but all I have in the world is at the service of 
the man who has pity in his heart for weak creatures.” 

The sergeant seemed more surprised than angry at 
this overture ; he meditated for a moment, while hug- 
ging the flask until he felt nearly suffocated. Returning 
it then to the Breton : 

All brave men,” he said gravely, “ have the same 
ideas about certain things.” 

The march had been resumed, and, under the influence 
of fatigue and of the night, silence was soon restored 
along the ranks of the column. Herve, having noticed 
more than once that Andree tottered on her saddle as 
if nearly overcome with sleep, had placed himself by 
her side. The girl, under his protection, yielded with 
naive confldence to a drowsiness whicli was lulled by 
the measured gait of her horse. She was awakened by 
the distinct though still distint sounds of a little bell 
striking eleven. Andree listened to it attentively, and 
suddenly uttering a cry of joy : 

“ Come on, Bellah ! ” she exclaimed, Tis our Kergant ! 
’tis the chapel bell ! Excuse me, brother, I am going 
ahead, with your permission ! ” And without w^aiting for 
an answer, the graceful child started at a gallop through 
a broad and sombre avenue, at the end of which lights 
sparkled among the trees like glow-worms in the grass. 

The seigneurial manor of Kergant was a construction 
of austere and almost cloister-like aspect. It was built 
in the form of an almost regular triangle, each side of 
which was closed by a tall tower with pointed roof. 
The foundations were immersed in a moat fllled with 
w^ater; but a permanent bridge had taken the place 
of the old drawbridge and gave access to the main en- 


BELLAH. 


267 


trance. The little chapel whose bell had just been 
ringing stood to the right of the castle, on a small 
hillock the slopes of which were covered with grass. 
Several buildings, used as farm-houses and stables, con- 
tributed with the chapel in surrouuding the space which 
extended in front of the manor, and stood in lieu of a 
court-3^ard. In the centre of that vacant space, servants 
bearing torches were listening respectfully to the orders 
given them by a man with white hair but erect figure 
and firm and manly countenance. The Marquis de Ker- 
gant was dressed throughout in black ; a crape was tied 
to his left arm, and a similar symbol of mourning was 
fastened to the handle of the hunting-knife that hung 
at his side. Andree and Bellah alighted at the same 
moment, and the marquis clasped them both at once 
to his heart. The canoness approached next to em- 
brace her brother, after which she whispered a few 
words rapidly to him. The old seigneur advanced then 
towards the Scottish maid and pointed out the chateau 
with ceremonious politeness. The daughter of the 
MacGregor took the arm of the canoness and started 
towards the entrance of the castle. 

“ Follow them, my children,” said the marquis ; you 
must be worn out with fatigue.” 

“ Excuse me, father,” interrupted Andree in a beseech- 
ing* tone, but we did not come alone'; there is some one 
— mon Dieu ! some one.” 

‘^Go, my child,” rejoined the marquis. “Your 
brother’s room is ready.” 

Andree lifted eagerly her adopted father’s hand to her 
lips, dropped a tear upon it, and withdrew with her friend. 
M. de Kergant followed the girls as far as the bridge 


268 


BELLAH, 


that crossed the moat. There he stopped, drew up his 
servants in line behind him, and waited. 

At this moment, the republican detachment was enter- 
ing the court-yard of the chateau. Herve alighted from 
his horse, and advanced towards the marquis with an 
emotion that he could scarce control. Francis and the 
soldiers followed him at a short distance. Keaching the 
door, he took off his hat and bowed low to the old man. 

“ Monsieur,” said the Marquis de Kergant, returning 
his salutation, “ accept my thanks.” 

I wish, sir, that they may be addressed to me in as 
hearty a spirit as I desire to deserve them.” 

“ Rest assured, citizen major, since such is your title,” 
rejoined the marquis, ‘^that 1 am not of those whose lips 
say Yes when the heart says hlo. Allow me to offer 
to the Count de Pelven hospitality for the night.” 

Herve was surprised and offended at the bitter and 
hauglity accent that marked those words. 

“ Monsieur,” he said, I have the same favor to ask 
for my lieutenant and for my men.” 

And they will take it, I suppose, in case I refuse ? ” 

I beg of you, sir ...” 

That is, however,” interrupted the marquis, raising his 
voice, “ what I would be curious to see. I have taken an 
oath never to allow, as long as I live, a single one of the 
cut-throats of your pretended republic to enter beneath 
my roof, and it is enough that I break my oath in favor 
of your father’s son.” 

On hearing this defying declaration, a murmur of anger 
broke forth in the ranks of the grenadiers. Herve beck- 
oned to them to keep silence, and turning towards the 
marquis : 


BELLAS. 


269 


“ And may I ask you, sir,’' he said, “ if you took that 
oath on the day when you signed a treaty with our rep- 
resentatives and accepted an amnesty from our pre- 
tended republic % ” 

N^o ! ” exclaimed Monsieur de Kergant with energy ; 
but I took it the day when you stained your flag with the 
blood of your King, and I renewed it the day I discovered 
how far your word could be relied upon — only yesterday, 
on hearing that you had basely and treacherously mur- 
dered the martyr’s son in his prison ! There is no longer 
any treaty, no longer any peace. Enough ! Walk in. 
Citizen Herve, and fear nothing; but ask me no more.” 

You do not seriously believe me capable of submitting 
to such hospitality,” said Herve with a smile whose quiet 
politeness caused a blush to rise to the old gentleman’s 
cheek. Since I am on hostile ground, I know how a 
soldier should spend the night there. — Come, boys, we 
shall camp out all together.” 

The grenadiers replied with a cheer, and followed the 
young man, who was walking hurriedly away from the 
chateau. 

Major,” said Bruidoux, “ he wouldn’t be so proud if 
he had not some dozens chouans hid in his cellar. Never- 
theless, say but the word and we’ll see who’ll sleep out- 
side to-night.” 

“ No,” replied Herve, they would say again that we 
break our treaties. Besides, I atn not sorry for this recep- 
tion, it spares me — But who is this following us ? Ah I 
is that you, Kado? Well, my friend, do me a favor: 
take care of my horses. I suppose that the poor beasts 
are not included in the oath.” 


270 


BELLAE. 


will be done, sir. Is there nothing more you 
wish?” 

These good fellows are hungry, my good Kado. Go 
down to the village, and bring up something for their 
supper. You’ll find us on the Eocky Moor. Here is my 
purse.” 

But, Monsieur Herve ...” 

Take my purse, I tell you, and on your life pay for 
everything, if you have to thrust money in that old man’s 
hand I ” 1 


BELLAK 


271 


VI. 

“ Thy voice is sweet to me, O child of the night, 

For phantoms frighten not my soul ; 

Thy voice is soothing to my heart.” 

Ossianic Songs. 

Gthded by the still living recollections of his child- 
hood, Major Herve entered with his troop in a labyrinth 
of paths that led them, after a march of a few minutes, to 
the foot of a steep and deserted moor. Save a few 
clumps of furze, the onl}^ vegetation apparent upon this 
sterile soil was a species of thin grass, close as moss, that 
covered it from top to bottom and offered but a very un- 
certain foothold. Not one rock, nor even the smallest 
pebble, could be seen to justify the name of Eocky Moor, 
which Herve had given to it. The soldiers stopped, hesi- 
tating to climb that barren slope gloomily swept by the 
night-wind, and which seemed, of all places in the world, 
the least calculated to afford them shelter. 

“ Patience, my friends,” said the young man, “ I have a 
surprise for you up yonder.” 

The soldiers began then resolutely the ascent. Herve 
was following them, when the sound of a panting voice, 
calling him by name, stopped him short. — ‘‘ It’s your sis- 
ter,” said Francis. 

“Yes, yes, it was to be expected,” murmured Herve. 

“ Lead the men, my friend ; I’ll overtake you in a mo- 
ment.” 

The young lieutenant turned to go, and at the same in- 


272 


BELLAS. 


stall t Andree fell panting and exhausted in her brother’s 
arms. 

“ Come, my child, come,” said Herve ; “ we should have 
expected it. No emotion, I beg of you.” 

Andree raised lier head to speak, but an explosion of grief 
threw her back, suffocated and palpitating, on the young 
man’s breast. 

“ Poor child ! come, have a little courage,” murmured 
Ilerve. 

Then, lifting his contracted brow towards heaven with 
a sudden gesture of despair, while Andree continued to 
sob as if her heart was about breaking on her brother’s 
heart : 

“ O God ! ” he said, ‘‘ O my God ! she is praying for 
peace. Do hearken unto her ! She is beseeching Thee 
to put an end to our discords. God of mercy, grant her 
prayer ! ” 

“ Take me away ! take me away from here ! ” exclaimed 
Andree. 

Ilerve made her sit at his side, and took her hand : 

“Take you away, dear child ? Where? To a camp? 
to a prison ? ” 

“ No matter, brother ; I cannot stay beneath a roof from 
which you have been insultingly repelled.” 

“ But you are mistaken ; I have simply been treated as 
an enemy, as indeed I am. It is quite natural that the 
rumor, true or false, of the 3"Oung pretender’s death should 
have exasperated M. de Kergant to the point of making 
him forget his dignity.” 

“ You will not take me away, Ilerve ? ” said Andree in 
a voice as tender as a caress. 

“ So long as I have not a safe and honorable shelter to 


BELLAS. 


273 


offer yon, my child, I must leave yon in that which our 
father selected for yon.” Ilerve rose as he nttered these 
words. We mnst part,” he added ; ‘‘ I will not leave 
time to onr men to conceive the idea that I am forsaking 
them.” 

Part ! ” repeated Andree. “ Have we met but to 
part again so soon and in snch a manner ? ” 

“ I promise yon, Andree, not to leave to-morrow with- 
out first seeing yon again.” 

Andree made him repeat that promise, and Herve 
after pressing her to his heart, tnrned abruptly away 
and began running up the hill. The summit of the 
moor formed a vast plateau smooth as a lawn, and 
the edges of which sloped gently towards more abrupt 
declivities ; its singularly savage aspect had no bound- 
ary save that of a stormy sky, upon which the intermit- 
tent light of the moon cut out the clouds in fanciful 
outlines. Towards the centre of the plateau, a large 
space was scattered with blocks of stone, which at a 
distance presented to the eye but a confused and chaotic 
appearance ; but on getting nearer, it was easily seen 
that a mysterious order had presided over the seeming 
irregularities of these piles. The stones were of all 
shapes and dimensions ; some stood isolated like colossal 
needles, or were dravvui symmetrically in long parallel 
lines like a procession of phantoms petrified in their 
grayish mantles ; many rested horizontally upon two sup- 
ports, according to that elementary principle of archi- 
tecture which children put in practice in the construction 
of their card-houses. Finally, the same principle had 
combined series of massive blocks and flat stones so as 
to form low, covered galleries closed at one extremity. 

12 * 


274 


BELLAH. 


While the soldiers were examining these ddbris with 
wondering curiosity, Kado arrived, driving before him a 
small liorse loaded down with a supply of provisions 
and dry wood, to which the soldiers gave at once a hearty 
reception. The old game-keeper volunteered his assist- 
ance in kindling fires, shook hands with the sergeant, 
and retired, promising to ITerve and Francis to have 
tlieir horses ready for them at the foot of the moor the 
next morning at daybreak. 

After supper, the grenadiers selected their resting- 
places under shelter of the druidical vaults, and each 
one fell quietly asleep beneath these stones on which 
the rust of ages covered a rust of human blood. 

Ilerve alone continued for some time to walk about 
the once sacred precincts, his mind filled with the recol- 
lections of his boyhood and his youth, when he often 
wandered in company with Bellah among the ruins of the 
old druidic hill. Exhausted with fatigue and unable to 
sleep, he had laid down to rest on one of the stone tables, 
in the attitude of a statue leaning over a tomb, and he 
was meditating over the happy days of by-gone years. 
Suddenly he shuddered : the white form of a woman 
moving noiselessly among the blocks of stone was advanc- 
ing towards him. Ilerve started to his feet, laying his 
hand upon his brow with the violent motion of a man 
who doubts his own sanity ; but already the white ap- 
parition was upon him, and he recognized Bellah. 

“ You ! you here and at this time, my sister ! ” he 
exclaimed, seizing her hand. 

Mademoiselle de Kergant withdrew her hand. 

Will Major Herve,” she said coldly, “ grant me a 
few minutes’ conversation ? ” 


BELLAR. 


275 


Herve, recalled to the reality o‘f the present, bowed 
and took off his hat; then, seeing that Bellah’s anxious 
eyes were trying to pierce the surrounding darkness : 

‘‘ Mademoiselle de Kergant may speak without fear,” 
he said ; “ my men are sleeping by yonder fires.” 

The girl rested her elbow on the stone by the side of 
which Herve was standing, and meditated for a moment 
in silence. 

Monsieur,” she said at last, your government has 
severed by a fresh crime the treaties that bound us to 
it.” 

“ I was not aware of it, mademoiselle,” said Herve. 

“ I tell you so,” rejoined Mademoiselle de Kergant. 
Herve bowed. “ Monsieur,” she went on, “ is your idea 
of duty such that you deem yourself engaged by your 
honor towards a perjured government % Are you pre- 
pared to accept the most odious complicities which it 
may please your Republic to impose upon you % ” 

“ Mademoiselle de Kergant,” replied Herve, must 
allow me to repudiate the complicity into which she 
attempts to involve me. I am responsible for myself 
alone. I do not serve men ; I serve ideas. I deplore the 
cruel deeds which these ideas have inspired, and I would 
like to see them punished ; 1 pity the martyrs they have 
made, and 1 would like to save them ; but even in the 
dust of the ruins and in the blood that stains them, 
these principles remain pure ; they remain worthy of the 
fidelity I have pledged unto them. These are words I 
am loath to speak to a woman, but 1 am driven to it. 
As to this fresh crime. Mademoiselle de Kergant will 
suffer me to wait before judging it, until I have heard 
it from impartial lips.” 


BELLAH. 


276 

“ Do yon doubt my word, sir ? ” said Bellah in a tone 
of bitter scorn. 

“ I doubt your word, yes ! ” exclaimed Herve with a 
sudden burst of passion; “ I doubt your word ! I doubt 
your very voice ; I doubt those cold lips and the strange 
words they utter. Who are you ? What do you wish i 
Who sent you here ? Here, on this spot ! — to have selected 
this very spot to overwhelm me ! By Heaven, ’tis an 
incredible outrage, a cruelty that passes man’s under- 
standing ! Begone ! ” 

At the sudden outburst of this storm, the girl’s resolu- 
tion seemed to falter, and it was in a low and feeble 
voice, like that of a submissive child, that she replied : 
“ Mon Dieu ! Herve, I am going.” But instead of going, 
she leaned against the stone altar and laid her two hands 
upon her heart as if to subdue its throbbings. 

“ Bellah,” Herve resumed more gently, “ pardon me ; 
but you have filled the measure of my sorrows. Do 
please retire. You will leave here a man in whose soul 
there is not room for one grief more. Your task is 
accomplished. Farewell ! ” 

“ Oh ! not yet, not thus, Herve ! I came, I hoped. . . . 
Yes, I hoped to be protected on this spot at least by 
your recollections of the past. Whatever may have 
been for you the two long years that separate us from 

it ... ” 

They have been such,” interrupted Herve, “ that I 
would gladly give them, as well as all those that may 
follow, for one hour of the old time. ...” 

“ Oh ! may God be a thousand times blessed, if it be 
so ! Tliat time may come again, Herve. You may re- 
enter that family which is your family as well as mine ; 


BELLAH. 277 

you may find again a father, sisters ; you may find us all, 
dear brother ! Y ou can do so ; will you do so ? ” 

“If I could only hope that might become possible 
some day ! ” said tlie young man, shaking his head mourn- 
fully. 

“ That day has come ! ” rejoined Bellah eagerly. “ Lis- 
ten, Herve : the war is about to begin again; I might 
tell you ... I have positive reasons to afiirm that 
our cause shall triumph. . . . That cause is that of 
your ancestors ; ’tis the cause of God ! You may have 
been mistaken, Llerve, but now your eyes must be open. 

. . . Oh ! how we shall love you, Herve ! My father 
already has ambitious projects for you. He will see that 
justice is done to ^^our talents, to 3mur courage. If you 
require any proofs, Herve, here, take this.” As she 
spoke these -words, she took from her bosom a paper 
which she laid in the 3^011 ng man’s hand; but the latter 
throwing it at once at her feet : 

“The justice I should deserve,” he said, “would be 
the scorn of m3^ enemies, the scorn of my friends, and 
3mur own scorn, Bellah ! ” 

“ Mine ! You are mistaken ! I could never scorn the 
man who nobly atones for his wrongs.” 

“ You, first of all, Bellah ! and you would be right. 
Hot another word on that subject, I beg of 3^11.” 

“ O Dieu ! And suppose I were to tell you, Herve, 
that you cannot return among the republicans that death 
awaits 3^11 there ? ” 

“ ’Tis a chance I must expect in the profession I follow, 
and every instant of my life makes me more resigned to 
such a fate.” 

Yes,” rejoined the girl in a tone of incomprehensible 


278 


BELLAS. 


conviction ; you are ready to die a soldier’s death ; but to 
be executed, to die an ignominious death — the death of a 
traitor — ^are you ready for that ? say.” 

“ The death of a traitor ? ” repeated Herve ; that is 
impossible.” 

“ You shall be accused, you shall ! In the name of 
Heaven, doubt it not ! ” 

“ But of what treason ? May 1 know ? ” 

‘‘ Alas ! were my own father’s life at stake instead of 
yours, it would be out of my power to tell you.” 

“ As you please ; I shall hear from my judges.” 

“ Herve ! your heart has grown callous amid those 
blood}^ men. . . . You are going to sacrifice your life with- 
out thinking that it does not belong to yourself alone. 
Poor Andree, ...” 

“ Should anything happen to me,” said Herve turning 
his face aside,” I know what a heart I leave near to 
hers.” 

With a sudden and violent gesture, Bellah seized the 
young man’s arm, and raising towards him her great, 
moist eyes : 

And I ? ” she said. 

Bellah’s desperate gesture, her low and confused tone, 
imparted such an expression to this word, that Herve felt 
moved to the very depths of his heart, as if the lips of the 
woman he loved had touched his own. He took Made- 
moiselle de Kergant’s hand in his, and gazing passionately 
at the girl, who stood straight, with drooping lids and 
heaving bosom : 

“ Bellah,” he said, “ I love you ardently. My life for 
the past two years does not reckon one single minute upon 
which the traces of that love are not stamped ; all the 


BELLAH. 


2T9 


rest serves but as useless diversion to that thought. But, 
whether or not I am mistaken, I see no honor outside the 
duty I have taken on myself, and I could not live dis- 
graced, not even near you, Bellah — ^least of all near you.” 

As he uttered these words. Mademoiselle de Kergant 
dropped her head upon her bosom as if overwhelmed : 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” she murmured ; “ and there is nothing 
more that I can say, Herve,” she went on in a desponding 
tone ; “ I see that your decision is irrevocable ; this is a 
snpreme, eternal farewell, therefore, and it is here, on 
this spot, that you speak thus to me ! We shall never meet 
again, never ; all is over ... all is over ! May God for- 
give me for having spoken in my own name. ... I have 
mingled the interest of a woman’s miserable heart ... I 
thought I was doing for the best'. . . and it is only a 
shame. . . .” 

Bellah ! dear Bellah ! you are breaking my heart. 
Farewell ! ” 

Farewell, then ! ” exclaimed the girl, apparently call- 
ing up all her courage. “ Farewell, heartless and pititess 
man ! I shall fulfil ray duty as implacably as you do yours. 
. . . Farewell ! ” 

And she hastened away, but with such a light tread, 
that her departure, as well as her coming, seemed like the 
silent vision of a dream. 

As soon as she had disappeared in one of the paths that 
wound down the face of the moor, Pelven approached 
eagerly the edge of the plateau, that he might collect the 
last crumbs of that happiness that was escaping him for- 
ever. He fancied that he heard a man’s voice mingling 
with Bellah’s voice. The idea that Mademoiselle de Ker- 
gant’s attempt had had a witness, and that it was the re- 


280 


BELLA'S. 


suit of a sort of diplomatic agreement, occurred at once to 
Herve’s mind, in the most striking and unfavorable light. 
Taking a more direct path, he walked cautiously down a 
few steps, and he saw plainly, by Eellah’s side, a man of ele- 
gant tigure, elastic step, and quick and youthful gesture. 
Mademoiselle de Kergant seemed to interrupt from time 
to time, with brief objections, her companion’s animated 
speech, which now rose to the most sonorous modulations, 
and now fell to the tone of the most intimate confidence. 
When they had reached the base of the moor, Herve^ 
thanks to his minute knowledge of the ground, managed 
to follow them across the fields without being discovered. 
He strove to apply to the unknown’s graceful figure, to 
the peculiar tone of his voice, some recollection of his 
own past life which might settle at least a part of his 
doubts, give a name to his anguish, and surrender a man 
to his hatred ; but it was in vain. 

As they had approached to within two hundred steps of 
the chateau, the unknown stopped abruptly, spoke some 
passionate words, and grasped Mademoiselle de Kergant’s 
arm and hand. Ilerve, uttering a hoarse exclamation of 
rage, jumped over the hedge behind which he had been 
hidden, and he was already rushing towards the theatre 
of this suspicious scene, when an unexpected incident 
kept him motionless : Mademoiselle de Kergant had freed 
her arm, and taking herself now her companion’s hand 
she pressed her lips upon it, bowing down to the very dust 
of the road. After which she started rapidly towards the 
chateau, followed more deliberately by the man who had 
just been the object of this extraordinary favor. 

Herve, setting then all mysteiy aside, and impelled by 
irresistible anger, advanced rapidly : 


BELL AH. 281 

“ Ell ! monsieur, if yon please ! ” he called in a sup- 
pressed though very distinct voice. 

The unknown turned around : 

“ Who goes there \ Who calls me ? ” he said. 

“ I, sir. Please have patience for two seconds, I beg 
of you.” 

Confound it ! it’s the officer again,” murmured the 
stranger. Whereupon he hurried so fast, that he had 
crossed the castle gate before Herve had been able to 
overtake him. 

No,” thought the young man as he walked slowly back 
to the moor, “never have the wildest fancies of a feverish 
night brought up before me such visions as this. Bellah, 
the proud, the chaste maiden on her knees before a man, 
receiving, nay, anticipating his caresses . . .and that when 
her lips were still quivering witli the avowal made to 
another. Bellah wiping a hypocrite’s tears with a courte- 
zan’s hand ! Thank God ! I know what to think now’.” 

And taking the white plume from his pocket, he tore it 
with fury and scattered its light fragments upon the soil. 

After this execution in effigy. Major Herve walked up 
to the expiring hres of the bivouac, and lay down with- 
in a few steps of Francis. The excessive prostration of 
that day of fatigue and anxiety overcame at last the agita- 
tion of his mind, and it required at daylight the hand of 
the punctual Bruidoux to rouse him from a sound sleep. 

A few moments later, little Andree reached, all out of 
breath, the summit of the moor ; she cast a hurried 
glance over the plateau, and seeing it deserted, she ut- 
tered a heart-rending cry of distress ; then throwing her- 
self on the ground, she wept long, her head buried in her 
hands. 


283 


BELLAE. 


YII. 


“ The Eepublic, madamd, cannot lose him, negligent though she be 
in keeping him.” — Voiture''s Letters. 


The main body of the republican army had then its 
quarters at Yitry .on the boundary line of Ile-et-Yilaine 
and Mayenne. The commander-in-chief occupied, half 
way between Rennes and Yitry, a dwelling of modest, 
appearance, something between a manor and a farm- 
house, and which had no claims to the honor of such. a 
guest but its rustic and retired situation. It is to that 
residence that we now beg the reader to follow us, warn- 
ing him that four days have elapsed between the last 
scenes of our story and those that are about to follow. 

It was one o’clock in the afternoon ; in the enclosed 
ground that stretched in front of the main building, 
soldiers in various uniforms were playing or talking 
with a mixture of reserve and freedom that revealed 
the master’s presence ; the most industrious were busy 
furbishing their arms or their horses’ bits; the more 
melancholy, lying on the ground in various and fre- 
quently opposite attitudes, seemed, the ones to watch the 
changing combinations of the clouds, the others to in- 
dulge in botanical studies. At this moment, the sentry 
posted outside the gate shouted, “ Who goes there ? ” 
to which a short and husky voice replied, and the next 
moment five liorsemen with disordered and mud-stained 
garments rode noisily into the court. Four of them 


BELLAS. 


283 


wore the uniform of hussars of the Republic ; the other, 
who had come in first, seemed a stranger to the army : 
he wore no distinctive signs, save a tricolored belt and 
plume. The silence that suddenly succeeded the tumult of 
a military recreation, and the sort of timidity with which 
the new-comer’s name was whispered around, showed 
that he was an old acquaintance for the greater number 
of those present, and an acquaintance met with more 
respect than pleasure. The man who had just received 
the equivocal homage of this reception justified it fully, 
whatever claims he might otherwise have to it, by the 
ascetic severity of his features and the fixed and, as it 
were, implacable expression of his eyes. Throwing the 
reins of his horse into the hands of a soldier, he entered 
the house, walked rapidly up the interior stairs, and 
reached an antechamber where two sentries were on 
duty; pushing aside, with a gesture of extreme preoc- 
cupation, one of the soldiers, who, while giving him the 
military salute, seemed to hesitate to let him pass, he 
opened a double door, penetrated into the adjoining 
room, and seemed to have found at last what he was 
seeking with so much haste and so little ceremony. 

On a sofa sat a man of tall and elegant stature, whose 
features beamed with manly beauty and the glamour of 
youth. This personage wore a military coat embroidered 
with golden oak-leaves on the collar and cuffs ; in front 
of him, a tricolored scarf and a sword lay on the corner 
of a table, a few steps from the sofa. At the sight of 
the man with the austere countenance, he rose, and, in a 
slightly haughty tone, he asked : 

You seem to have had a long journey, citizen repre- 
sentative ; do you bring me any o^-ders ? ” 


284 : 


BELLAS, 


“ ]^o ; but I briug some news.” 

“ And of what nature ? ” 

“ I should say good, were I to judge by the narrow 
light of my pride, for it confirms all my previsions, it 
justifies all my unheeded warnings.” 

“ You mean, I suppose,” replied the young general, 
“ that the pacification is broken.” 

“ Openly and audaciously. The country is ablaze 
from Lower-Maine to the depths of Brittany ; Pluvigner, 
is in the hands of the brigands ; they have surprised and 
captured one of our corvettes at Yannes. Duhesine has 
been defeated at Plelan, Humbert at Camors. Our 
stores at Pont-de-Buis, in Finisterre, have been seized ; 
our camps through the whole of Morbihan broken and 
destroyed.” 

“ Is that all ? ” said the general, who affected to listen 
to the story of all these disasters with as much indifference 
as the representative took pleasure in enumerating them. 

Ho, that is not all : a Bourbon is at the head of the 
rebels.” 

“ What ! that is impossible ! ” exclaimed the young 
republican chief, suddenly losing all semblance of in- 
difference. “ That would be terrible indeed ! ” he added 
in a lower tone of voice. 

‘‘ That is certain. Duhesme and Humbert have seen 
him ; Humbert even spoke to him during the fight. He 
is said to be the ci-devant Count d’ Artois, Capet’s 
brother.” 

“The Count d’ Artois ! Impossible!” again said the 
general, whose animated gestures betrayed profound 
agitation of mind. “ Only a moment ago I heard of 
the arrival of his aid-de-camp, the ci-devant Marquis de 


BELLAH. 


285 


Riviere, at Charrette’s head-quarters ; but of the prince, 
not a word ; he had not left British soil — And which 
way — how — at what fatal minute has he been able to 
set foot in Brittany ? ” 

It is precisely on that point that I desire to consult 
you, citizen general. The active surveillance exercised 
at all points of the coast gives to the apparition of the 
ci-devant prince such a character, that it camiot be ex- 
plained without painful conjectures. The word treason 
has been uttered.” 

The general, starting from his pensive attitude, 
straightened himself up with vivacity ; and crossing his 
fiery glance with the hard and cold look of the repre- 
sentative, he repeated in a voice of thunder : 

The word treason has been uttered ? Against 
.whom ? ” 

‘‘You are purposely misconstruing my words, citizen 
general; no one thinks of suspecting you, but they do 
charge you with placing your confidence too lightly, and 
bestowing your friendship upon suspected individuals. I 
refer to one of your oflicers, the one whom you admit into 
your closest intimacy, the ci-devant Count de Pelven.” 

“ Major Pelven, citizen representative, has made 
greater sacrifices in behalf of the Republic than either 
you or I. To have left him for two years in the humble 
rank that he holds is a crying injustice, which I mean 
soon to repair.” 

“Make haste, then, if you do not wish to be fore- 
stalled; for the Bourbon, if he be not ungrateful, owes 
a lofty reward to the pure patriot who went to receive 
him on his landing, and who escorted him into the very 
midst of the brigands’ army.” 


286 


BELLAS. 


“ Have yon any proofs of wliat you state, citizen com- 
missioner ? ” 

‘‘ I have,” replied the conventionnel^ taking a letter 
from his portfolio ; “ here is what one of our agents 
writes from England ; you may judge for yourself 
whether this information, taken in connection with the 
facets which are already in your possession, constitute 
sufficient proofs. This letter, unfortunately, reached me 
two days after the event it was intended to guard against. 
Listen : ‘ The British frigate Loyalty is about to land 

in Brittany a Bourbon, said to be the Duke d’Eiighien, 
son of Conde or the Count d’ Artois: the latter, most 
likely. lie travels in the garb of a woman in company 
with the sister and daughter of the ci-devant Kergant, 
who have obtained a permit to return through the 
agency of the ci-devant Pelven, a republican officer 
standing very high in the general-in-chief ’s confidence. 
They are relying upon Pelven’s connivance to protect 
the landing, which will take place some day in the 
coming decade, on the southern coast of Finisterre; the 
whole West, Hormandy included this time, is only wait- 
ing for this oft-promised chief, to rise en massed ” 

The general, during the reading of this letter, had 
remained motionless, all his features expressing utter 
amazement. 

‘‘ Is it true ? is it clear \ ” added the representative, 
handing him the letter. 

The young man glanced rapidly over it, uttered a sort 
of groan, sank upon the sofa, and remained for some 
time, liis head resting upon his hand, absorbed in pain- 
ful thought. 

The only witness of his anguish was not a man from 


BELLAS. 


287 


whom any sympathy for human weakness, however 
generous its source, might be expected ; nay, there was 
even a secret shade of triumph in the doubtful glance 
with which he contemplated the young republican gen- 
eral’s prostration. 

“ What must surprise you,” he added, “ is the degree 
of audacity which your ci-devant friend is about to 
display. Instead of remaining wisely near him he has 
served so well, I am assured that he is on his way to 
join you and continue as a spy the task he has begun as 
a traitor.” 

Spy ! Pelven 1 ” murmured the general, as if the 
coupling of these two words had presented , an inexpli- 
cable riddle to his mind. 

‘‘It is necessary, above all, citizen geneml, that jus- 
tice be done.” 

The general waited a few moments before replying ; 
then raising his head at last, as if emerging from deep 
meditation, he said : 

“ Yery well, citizen representative, it shall be done.” 

“ I am going to wait for this Pelven’s return ; you 
will give me a sufficient escort to take liim to lien lies, 
where I wish to question him in presence of my col- 
leagues. After which, he will be tried before the revo- 
lutionary tribunal.” 

“I have told you, citizen, that justice shall be done. 
Do you understand ? ” 

“ Not at all,” replied the representative, with a look 
of great surprise. “Am I to understand that you re- 
fuse to surrender this great criminal to the nation’s 
vengeance ? ” 


288 


BELLAH. 


“ I hold from the nation all the power necessary to 
serve and avenge it. I need borrow from no one.” 

The genej’al spoke with a deliberate accent and quie 
decision that succeeded in disturbing the coolness of the 
representative. 

“ Young man ! ” he exclaimed violently, “ I have suf- 
fered much from you ; much more than could be expected 
from my position and my duty ; but this goes beyond all 
limit and all patience. Do you forget who I am ? Do 
you forget that I have but to open this window and 
utter two words to cause your epaulets to be torn oft by 
your own soldiers ? ” 

“ Try it,” said the general, who, having once taken his 
resolution, seemed to delight in his recent and dangerous 
independence. 

“ This is sheer madness ! ” murmured the representa- 
tive, not far indeed from seeing an act of insanity in 
this defiance of his terrible power. 

‘‘It is simply,” rejoined the general in the same re- 
markably quiet tone, “ it is simply an experiment I wish 
to make : of us two there is one too many in the nation’s 
confidence. I mean to find out which. The occasion 
offers ; I seize it. Since this immense, frightful war is 
about to blaze forth again, I will not attempt to extin- 
guish it unless I am first rid of the ii*on fetters which 
you have riveted to my feet, nor if I am to behold my 
every movement controlled by an outrageous inquis- 
ition, my intentions suspected by fanaticism, my plans 
thwarted by ignorance. Go, now; go, and inform upon 
me; the committee shall judge between us; but, believe 
me, citizen, attempt no imprudent test of your power; 
you may see that my patience is exhausted as well as 


BELLAH. 


289 

your own, and no one, under my eyes, shall provoke my 
army to indiscipline with impunity. Farewell ! ” 

During this imperious explosion, the conventionneV s 
face had become suddenly overspread with a purplish 
hue, which yielded almost at once to a livid pallor. His 
trembling lips seemed unable to express the wrath that 
shook his frame. He could only answer a hoarse excla- 
mation to the threatening farewell of his rival, and he 
left the room abruptly, making with the hand a gesture 
of implacable resentment. 

13 


290 


BELLAS. 


VIII. 

‘ ‘ Cette gloire etait due aux manes d’un tel homme, 

D’emporter avec eux la liberte de Rome.” — Corneille, Ginna. 

The general, rid of the representative’s pi-esence, 
remained for a few minutes on the same spot, with down- 
cast head and dreamy eyes. Then, making suddenly 
the gesture of a man who assumes resolutely all the 
consequences of an irresistible act, and who wishes to 
turn his mind on some other train of thoughts, he rose 
and approached a window opening on the court-yard. 
He seemed not to find what he was looking for, and 
began pacing the room impatiently, stopping occasionally 
before the window or in front of a clock placed on a 
console. At intervals, the thoughts that agitated his 
mind escaped almost inadvertently from his lips. “ What 
deceit ! ” he murmured. “ Such are men ! A rude and 
unexpected lesson. . . . His dupe, . . . that is tlie 
word . . . his laughing-stock ... so long and so openly ! 
and what misery he is going to cause ! how much blood ! 
An insult to me ... a public crime. . . . Ev*erything ! 
The wretch ! ” 

The sound of a light knock at the door interrupted 
the general. After lie had answered to come in, the 
door opened and the elegant and delicate figure of 
Major Herve de Pelven appeared before the eyes of 
Hoche. 

The general advanced slowly towards the man whom 


BELLAH. 


291 


an hour before he called his friend, and began examin- 
ing him with singular curiosity, as if trying to detect 
in his well-known features some hideous trace heretofore 
unseen. Closing his examination suddenly with a signili- 
cant shrug of his shoulders, he partly sat on the edge of 
the table where lay his sabre and scarf, and without 
ceasing to scrutinize Pelven’s face : 

Where is Francis ? ” he said. 

This question failed to rouse Herve from the dumb 
surprise into which he had been plunged by the general’s 
unaccountable reception. 

ask you where is Francis,” repeated the latter in 
a louder tone. “ What have you done with him ?” 

“ General,” replied the major, “ Francis is below, in 
the yard. We have just arrived together.” 

“ Ah ! Well, tell me, Monsieur de Pelven': you have 
succeeded to your heartls content, have you not ? ” 

“ 1 have, general,” dryly replied Ilerve whose pride 
was becoming gradually alarmed at a manner and a lan- 
guage so different from the cordial familiarity to which 
he was accustomed. 

‘‘ It is fortunate for you, as well as for myself, sir.” 

“ I regret being unable to understand you, general.” 

“ Ah ! and tell me, did you see any chouans on your 
way ? ” 

“ Everything I have seen, citizen general, is threaten- 
ing and indicative of an early outbreak. We even 
thought we heard the sound of cannon last night and 
yesterday.” 

“Peally! jmu have indeed performed there a most 
dangerous campaign, and which will not remain unre- 
warded, if there is still such a thing as justice in the 


292 


BELLAH. 


world. But I must first congratulate you, I suppose, on 
your marvellous talent in the special branch you have 
had the good taste to select. Monsieur de Pelven ; never, 
I confess, did a mask of infamy look so much like an 
honest man’s face.” An intense blush suddenly suffused 
the young major’s cheeks and brow. 

“ It is easy for me to see,” he said, “ that I stand here 
accused of some crime ; it has been predicted to me that 
it would be so ; but I had a right to expect from General 
Iloche that some explanation would precede the insult.” 

Though detected hypocrisy sometimes finds in the in- 
spirations of peril the attitude and the accent of truth, 
Herve’s manner, the assurance of his voice, shook the 
general’s conviction ; but before he had time to answer, 
his attention was attracted to the yard by the sound of 
horses’ feet followed by a tumult of voices. A few 
moments later, Francis came into the room with excited 
look, holding a package of letters in his hand. 

“ Beg pardon, general,” he said ; there are dispatches 
brought in by two dragoons from Humbert’s and 
Duhesme’s divisions. It seems that things are getting 
hot yonder.” 

The general, after patting the young lieutenant on the 
shoulder in a friendly way, opened the dispatches eagerly 
and began glancing rapidly over them, interrupting him- 
self frequently with reiterated exclamations ; then dash- 
ing suddenly the package of letters to the floor, and 
addressing Francis in a tone that indicated ill-suppressed 
wrath : 

“ My child,” he said, “ you are about to take in one 
moment a great step in the experience of life. Here is 
Monsieur de Pelven, our mutual friend; look at him 


BELLAS. 


293 


well, and remember for the rest of y 'Ur life, that be- 
neath tliat most loyal countenance was hid the soul of a 
spy and a traitor.” 

“ You have been lied to, general,” said Herve coldly, 
while an exclamation of surprise and incredulity burst 
from the young lieutenant’s lips. 

‘‘As long as the light did not dazzle my eyes, I 
doubted,” rejoined Hoche ; ” but it is an unpardonable 
negligence on your part. Monsieur de Pelven, when it is 
well known that we also have our spies, to allow such 
important documents as this to lie behind you.” 

At the same time, he held out before the two officers’ 
eyes a rumpled and mud-stained paper upon which the 
following lines were written : “ Safe-conduct for the 
Count Ilerve de Pelven, brigadier-general in the Catholic 
and Royal army.” Signed, “ Charette.” 

Ilerve looked at the little lieutenant and murmured 
the name of Bellah. 

“ This safe-conduct,” added the general, “ was found 
by one of our secret agents on the moor of Kergant, 
where you spent one night. There is no lack of other 
proofs, but this one is enough for me. Row I must ask 
you, sir, if you have anything to say in defence of your 
life, for I warn you that it is in danger. Give up your 
arms, if you please.” 

Herve unfastened his belt and handed his sword to 
Francis, who took it with a trembling hand. 

“ General,” then said the young major, “ before God 
and on my honor, I am innocent. I succumb under 
appearances to which I have but my word to oppose. 
That safe-conduct is authentic, but I never accepted it. 
I may add further that those very men who are supposed 


294 


BELLAK 


to be my friends attempted to take my life less than five 
days ago.” 

Have you been wounded ? ” inquired Hocbe eagerly. 

Can you show me the trace of a wound ? ” 

‘‘ Hone, unfortunately.” 

“ But, general,” exclaimed Francis, “ I was there and 
I saw ; the major was knocked senseless! ” 

“ With due respect, it seems,” said the general, who 
had recovered his alarming coolness. “Enough, Francis. 
You are not a child. Monsieur de Pelven, and you know 
well enough what the conclusion of such an affair is 
likely to be. Would you prefer having everything 
quietly settled between us, or shall I summon a court- 
martial ? ” 

“I desire no judge but yourself, general.” 

“You certainly could not have one more favorably 
disposed towards you. You have strangely deceived me, 
Pelven, cruelly so, I may say. Surely,” he went on in a 
soft and almost gentle tone of voice, “ I was far from 
ever imagining that our relations of esteem and friend- 
ship would end in such a manner; it is not without 
much grief ” 

The general, whose attention was diverted by the 
sound of the sobs which poor Francis could no longer 
withhold, stopped short. He opened the door, and call- 
ing one of the soldiers on duty in the outer room : 

“ Citizen Pelven is your prisoner,” he said ; “ I shall 
hold you responsible for him. Lieutenant Francis, go 
wait for me there.” 

The young lieutenant cast a beseeching look upon his 
protector,- and took refuge in the adjoining room with 
desperate haste. 


BELLAH. 


295 


“ Monsieur Pelven ” then resumed the general, “ they 
wished to take you to prison, and thence you know 
where. I thought that, after all, you would prefer a 
soldier’s death.” 

“ Thank you, general,” said Herve. 

‘‘You have fifteen minutes to live, sir.” 

Hoche turned abruptly as he uttered these words, and 
closing the door behind him, he joined Francis in the 
antechamber. An old sergeant stood by in a respectful 
attitude ; the general called him : 

“ Take fifteen grenadiers with you,” he said ; “ go 
with them into the field on the left of the farm ; haA'o 
them load their muskets, and wait for the man I am 
going to send you.” 

Tl)en taking his young aid-de-camp by the arm, he 
fairly dragged him into a room on the opposite side of 
the landing. 

Tlie reader may have remarked with surprise that 
between the judge and the accused there had been no 
explanation sufficient to inform the latter of the nature 
and extent of the crime imputed to him ; but on the one 
hand, thfe general believed he had no information to give 
him on that score ; and on the other, Pelven had seen in 
what happened to him the logical consequence of the 
Hnnanoeuvres the object of which was to bind him to the 
royalist cause by rendering him suspicious to his own 
party. It was more than enough in those days to bring 
about a sentence of death. 

Herve, however, having been left alone under guard 
of the sentry, strove to master the instinctive revolt, the 
chaos of ideas and sentiments which the prospect of his 
early dissolution excites in every human being. Passing 


296 


BELLAS. 


several times Ins hand over his forehead, the young man 
walked rapidly about the room for a minute or two, 
after which he stopped and drew a long breath as if 
feeling victorious at last in the supreme struggle he had 
just sustained. He then sat at the table, and hurriedly 
wrote a few lines addressed to his sister. Ten minutes 
elapsed, and he was still wrapped in the bitterness of 
this last effusion, when a slight noise caused him to turn 
towards the door. His glance met that of Hoche. 

‘‘Excuse me, sir, if I disturb you,” said the general, 
keeping his eyes attentively fixed upon those of the young 
man ; “ but in the present condition of affairs, it must be 
quite indifferent to you to tell me exactly the name of the 
Bourbon who landed in female attire in company with 
your relatives, and through your kind offices.” 

At this detailed question, such a sincere expression of 
surprise appeared upon Herve’s countenance, that the gen- 
erah was unable to repress a slight smile. 

“I was sure of it, general! I could have bet my head 
twenty times over ! Down with Jacobins and informers 1 ” 
exclaimed Francis, rushing excitedly into the ix)om. 

“ Upon my word, general,” stammered Heiwe, “I don’t 
know ; . . . I really have not the slightest idea what you 
mean.” 

Another and more frank smile brightened the hand- 
some features of the young general-in-chief. 

“ Yim la Republique ! ” exclaimed Francis, embracing 
Herve in a fit of affectionate enthusiasm. 

“You see. Major,” said Hoche, “ that M. Francis dias 
restored you his esteem. You will please excuse me 1:^,1 
am not quite so prompt. To my eyes you are still guilty, 
at least of excessive imprudence. The truth is, we have, 


BELLAH. 


297 


thanks to you, a Bourbon on our hands. I need not 
enumerate to you tlie misfortunes arising from such a com- 
plication ; but how can I conceive that the suspicious in- 
cidents of your journey did not more seriously excite your 
distrust ? ” 

A single ray of light thrown upon a plot of which we 
have been the dupe is often sufficient to enable us to see 
plainly all its ramifications. Thus did Herve’s memory 
instantly collect, so as to form a complete corjpus delicti^ 
all the equivocal circumstances of his campaign : the 
Scotchwoman’s extreme reserve, the scenes at the castle of 
Groach, Bellah’s language and her strange insistance on 
the Rocky Moor, and finally the mysterious character of 
the individual who had followed Mademoiselle de 
Kergant in her nocturnal excursion. This last recollection 
penetrated more deeply than all the rest into the young 
man’s ulcerated heart. 

General,/’ he said, “ I have been outrageously mocked 
and trifled ^ith. My sister is a child, who doubtless thought 
it all a good joke. As to the others ...” Major Ilerve 
completed his idea by a slow and prolonged sign of the 
head, which indicated bitter resentment. 

The gen erab had gone up to a window ; he remained 
for some time gazing on the vacancy, and with knitted 
brow, as if laboring under a painful irresolution ; then 
turning suddenly around : 

• Suppose,” he said, “ I take upon myself to set you 
at liberty, what will you do ? ” For I cannot think of 
giving you employment, for the present, at least. Come, 
what would you do ? ” 

“ I should ,go straight to the chouans, straight to the 
prince’s head-quarters, since there is a prince.” 

13 * 


298 


BELLAS, 


Are yon mad 

I would resume my name and title,” the young man 
went on warmly ; “ for I need the privilege they convey to 
enable me to tell the hero of that comedy performed at my 
expense : ‘ Sir,’ or ‘ Your Highness,’ — as the case may be, — 

‘ here is a nobleman like yourself, who comes to call you 
to account for the peril in which you have placed, by a 
disloyal trick, not his life, but his honor.’ ” 

“ And his love-affairs ! ” added the general laugh- 
ingly. “ By my faith, Herve, it may be madness, 
but it is a madness that I like. I was not born a • 
nobleman ; far from it, as you know ; but I dare say I 
would have become one in the days when it only required, 
for that, to have a taste for adventures and two grains of 
audacity in the heart. Nevertheless, the project is abso- 
lutely unreasonable, and I can say nothing in its favor, 
except that I would do the same in your place. At all 
events, should you meet with any mishap, you have here 
friends who will spare no efforts to deliver or avenge you. 
Isn't it so, Francis ? ” 

“ I am going with him,” said Francis, “ to see the ladies 
of the court.” 

“You’ll be kind enough to wait for me, sir. Pel- 
veii, take back your sword ; but I advise you to lay your 
uniform aside. Yon must also provide ^^ourself with that ^ 
unlucky safe-conduct ; otherwise it would be impossible 
for you to penetrate among those gentlemen who are in 
force and on a war footing over the whole country. And, 
wait a moment,” added the general, while he rapidly wrote 
two lines on a piece of paper, “ hide this in the lining of 
your coat that you may not be molested by the Eepub- 
lic.” 


BELLAH. 


299 


“Your kindness overwhelms me, general.” 

“ I should like to make you forget that unpleasant 
moment, Pelven. Go now, and may God have you in 
His keeping. I hope you leave me without ill feeling.” 

Herve took the hand the general was offering him, and 
pressed it with emotion. 

“ Farewell, general,” he said ; “ I am going to earn the 
right to see you again and to continue serving you.” 

“ Ho, not me, Pelven, never me ; but France, but the 
Pepublic, the strong, patient, and generous Republic ! ” 

“ That is how I understand it,” said Herve. And 
bowing with affectionate courtesy, he left, accompanied 
by Francis. 

A few moments later, Pelven and the little lieutenant 
were galloping on the road to Rennes ; but after a couple 
of leagues, Herve was compelled to take a cross path in or- 
der to avoid that city in which his presence might have 
proved dangerous to himself. It was there the two 
jfriends parted, about two hours before sunset, one to re- 
turn to the general-in-cbief’s quarters, the other to run 
the new hazard to which he was urged, against every sug- 
gestion of prudence, by the impetuous feelings of an out- 
raged man and a jealous lover. 


300 


BELLAS. 


IX. 

“Bois ton sang, Beanmanoir, ta soif se passera .” — Old French Ballad. 


The next day, at about tlie same hour, Major Pelven, 
wearing an undress military uniform, was riding on the 
road from Plelan to Ploermel, and was urging forward 
his horse in order to reach the latter town before the 
storm that was brewing in the sky could burst. Dark 
clouds, stretching as far the horizon, were gradually 
lowering down to the tops of the motionless trees. At 
intervals, large drops of rain spotted the dust in the road. 
Suddenly a flash of lightning tore open the surface of 
the clouds ; a double explosion shook the ground, and at 
the same time a hood of rain and hail was hurled from 
the lieavens, darkening the atmosphere as with a dense 
mist. The traveller’s horse, dazzled by the lightning, 
blinded by the rain, jumped aside, stopped short, then 
started again at a gallop with an impetuous rush which 
his master was unable to check. 

Pelven had given himself up at last, and not without 
a rather pleasant sensation, to this furious race through 
the raging elements, when, at a turn of the road, he 
came near being upset by some ten or twelve horsemen 
coming from the opposite direction, and who went by 
him like a whirlwind. ITerve had but just time to 
recognize dragoons of the Pepublic, and to ask them why 
they were in such a hurry ; but the rapidity with which 
he was still carried forward and the formidable roar of 


BELLAH. 


301 


the tempest prevented him from catching their answer. 
He merely saw one of the men turn around and make a 
gesture as if to advise him not to go on. Half a league 
farther, Pelven discovered another squad of horsemen 
running towards him with the same apparent haste and 
disorder. The young major, who had. succeeded at last in 
getting his horse under control, placed himself across 
the road and beckoned to the fugitives — for the fellows 
certainly did not look as if they were marching towards 
the. enemy — to stop. But the torrent of men and horses 
merely divided in a double stream to the right and left 
of him, leaving Herve absolute master of the position, 
and joining again behind him. 

“ Bandits ! ” exclaimed the indignant young man. 
And at the same time, starting his horse on the track of 
the retreating column, he seized one of the dragoons 
by his belt and called out angrily to him : 

“ Where are you running to in such a hurry, knave? ” 

‘‘ To Plclan, citizen officer, to the first republican out- 
posts.” 

“ Are you pursued ? ” 

“ I don’t know. They said in Ploermel that the 
cJiouans were coming. I don’t believe it, but I followed 
our boys.” 

“ And where the’ devil do you come from ? ” 

“ We belong to Humbert’s division, which must be in 
Qnimpor by this time ; but we have been cut off from 
our brigade in the rout ...” 

“ What ! a rout ! you rascal ? ” 

Ah ! there’s no doubt about it, citizen ! I advise you 
not to go beyond Ploermel for mere amusement.” 

And who commands the chouans ? ” 


302 


BELLAH. 


“ Why, their ci-devant prince, their god, their idol ! 
They say it was one of our officers helped him land. 
I congratulate him ! ” 

“ And tell me,” interrupted Ilerve with some vivacity, 
“ where have we been defeated % ” 

“At Pluvigner, and, farther on, at Camors, but without 
disgrace to the flag, major. We held out everywhere as 
long as it was possible, but recruits were springing up 
for them everywhere.” 

“ And where is the army of the Whites now ? ” said 
Hervo. 

Ah! where is it? that’s it,” rejoined the dragoon. 
“ Imagine, sir, that everything has disappeared: infantry, 
cavalry, the guns they have taken from us, the munitions, 
all. The country seems quiet enough now, for there is 
no one about ; but I don’t like the looks of it. Are 
you not coming back with us, citizen major ? ” 

“ No,” said Herve ; “ you may go and dry your 
clothes.” 

The dragoon lifting one hand to his helmet, took with 
.the other the rare object which Pelven was offering him 
in the shape of a silver coin, and started again at a 
gallop. 

Half an hour later, the young major alighted in front 
of a wayside inn, within gunshot of Ploermel, and 
bearing on its modest fa9ade the traditional bunch of 
mistletoe. Leaving his horse in the hands of a little 
boy in wooden shoes who gazed at him with an air of 
distrustful timidity, Pelven entered the kitchen of the 
inn, in which three peasants were talking in a wdiisper, 
but with an appearance of great animation. They rose 
at once, apparently out of respect, and ceased to speak ; 


BELLAS, 


303 


then, making their way towards the door by a series of 
skilful evolutions while Herve was addressing some 
questions to the hostess, they disappeared, one after 
another, after casting upon the republican uniform a 
glance that was anything but friendly. The hostess, a 
woman of some forty years, with a florid complexion, had 
not, seemed at first to look much more kindly upon the 
lionorable customqr whom Heaven and the storm had sent 
lier ; but, struck with the young man’s pleasant counte- 
nance and the politeness with wliich he expressed him- 
self, she allowed the rigid lines of her circumspect face 
to relax gradually into a smile, and replied that she 
would certainly do everything in her power in order 
that the young gentleman — she meant tire worthy citizen 
— should not regret having entered her house. 

While the woman was preparing his supper, Herve 
sat down in front of the chimney, and while drying his 
boots and his cloak, he inquired what there was new 
about the country, and whether there were any rumors 
of the arrival of any royalist bands at Ploermel ; to all 
of which the discreet matron replied that there was not 
much news worth repeating ; that she had heard nothing 
of royalist bands, and that the republican horsemen he 
had doubtless met must have been frightened at their 
own shadows ; which the young major had no difficulty 
in believing, having often seen the best soldiers yield to 
these unaccountable panics. • 

During supper, Herve tried to renew the conversation 
with his prudent hostess ; he began by praising her culi- 
nary skill and the cleanliness of the service, after which 
he ventured upon asking her some more explicit details 
upon the condition of the country and the chances of 


304 


BELLAB. 


travelling throngli it in security. The hostess replied 
that she was not in the habit of poisoning those who ate 
in her house; that not having gone beyond Ploerinel 
for more than ten years, she was unable to say with any 
degree of precision what was going on there, but that 
the young gentleman — she meant the citizen otHcer — 
would certainly ascertain all he wished to know, if he 
kept on his journey, which she by no mgans advised him 
to do, though she had no reason whatever for deterring 
him from it. 

Ilerve was compelled to be satisfied with this infor- 
mation, of which we have given but the brief substance 
to the reader ; he rose from the table, and it being now 
quite dark, he told the hostess he was going to take a 
walk through the town, and that he wished to find his 
room ready on his return. An hour later, he came 
back, carrying a rather large bundle under his arm ; he 
paid his bill, stating that he wished to start very early 
the next morning, and retired to his room. 

The next morning, as the smiling sun of a June morn- 
ing caused the liquid diamonds scattered by the storm of 
the previous day to sparkle on the point of the leaves, a 
solitary horseman was following at a trot the road that 
extends to the west of Ploerinel. lie was a man in the 
spring of life : a broad-brimmed hat concealed in part 
his remarkably elegant features, which formed a contrast, 
perhaps too much marked, with the rough woollen stuff, 
the coarse linen shirt, and the clumsy leggings that com- 
posed the rest of his costume. He carried in his hand, 
instead of a whip, a holly stick with leather string. 
Upon the whole, the outer appearance of the rider, save a 
few details to which a particularly distrustful observer 


BELLAH, 


305 


would alone have paid any attention, was that of a 
country horse-dealer on a business tour. 

After leaving Ploermel, the horse-dealer had met a 
few peasant women who were goiug to the town with 
milk, and who had turned around, after returning his sal- 
utation, to consider him with a look of naive surprise ; 
but since he had passed a level heath celebrated in the 
heroic souvenirs of the country, he had seen no living be- 
ing on his path ; the few dwellings that he saw were 
closed and silent as if the plague had walled their doors. 
In this strange solitude, the traveller experienced some- 
thing like the sad and solemn impression one feels in 
walking through a graveyard. 

His surprise further increased when, on entering a 
small town situated on the banks of a river, he found it 
entirely deserted. The houses stood unharmed, but no 
trace of smoke above the roofs, not a face at the windows, 
no sound inside the dwellings ; the traveller heard only 
the sonorous ring of his horse’s shoes on the wretched 
pavement of the streets. 

He liastened to leave the widowed city, and when he 
had lost sight of its last chimney, he alighted and removed 
the bridle from his horse, leaving him to graze at lib- 
erty in the rich and moist grass that lined the edges of the 
road ; then, sitting down by a small spring, the young 
horse-dealer took a few provisions from his porte-manteaii, 
and began a school-boy’s lunch, often interrupted to listen 
to the vague murmurs of the solitude. After a halt of 
half an hour, he mounted his horse again, glanced with 
some little hesitation at the two roads that crossed at this 
point, and started at last in the direction of the south. 
He travelled thus for some hours, meeting only a Breton 


306 


BELLAH. 


peasant equipped for war, from whom he ascertained, not 
without difficulty, and only after ^exhibiting a safe- 
conduct bearing the signature of Chare tte, that the royal- 
ist chiefs were at this moment gathered at the chateau of 
Kergant, and that the republican troops were moving on 
from Yitre. 

He modified his itinerary accordingly, and without 
meeting with any further incident of note, he entered the 
long avenue of ancient trees that gave access to the 
manor of Kergant, just as the twilight was turning into 
darkness. About half way up the avenue, he alighted 
from his horse and fastened him to a fence which in- 
closed a broad meadow. He then jumped over the 
fence, crossed the meadow diagonally, and after climbing 
a bank of which he seemed to know perfectly tlie weak 
side, he found himself inside a vast garden that stretched 
parallel with the left wing of the chateau. Several 
lighted windows cast a rather bright light upon the nar- 
row foot-paths which box- wood edgings marked out among 
the flower-beds. The young man stopped and seemed to 
hesitate ; but he soon resumed his walk, taking care, 
however, to keep outside the luminous zone ; but his gait 
was slow : it had assumed the uncertainty of an aimless 
stroll. His looks seemed to pierce the darkness and dis- 
cover at every step objects from which he could scarce 
tear himself afterward : it was a tree, a bench, the pedes- 
tal of a statue or of a gigantic vase ; it seemed as though 
each corner were a souvenir, and each souvenir a friend. 

A steep slope led him, through a labyrinth of evergreens, 
to a part of the garden which was called The Wood, and 
where nature had been left almost wholly to itself. Here 
and there, liowever, small clearings contrived among the 


BELLAS. 


307 


dark masses of the spruce-trees admitted the doubtful 
liglit of a starry night on small patches of lawn. The 
young man had been following for a few moments one 
of the paths that meandered beneath the leafy vaults, 
when the sound of voices reached his ears, so distinct, so 
close, that those who spoke could not be more than ten 
steps from him. He stopped short ; then groping through 
the thicket, he discovered, seated upon a semi-circular 
grassy bank to which the path led after a sharp turn, the 
elegant outline of a female figure wrapped in a hooded 
mantle. Hear her, leaning against a tree, stood a man of 
small stature who was leaning slightly forward to speak: 

It is unreasonable and ungrateful of you,” the un- 
known was saying in a gently caressing accent; “you 
know how busy is my life, and in what manner ; 1 have 
great, terrible duties: were I to neglect them you would 
be the first to blame me, or else you have greatly changed. 
And how can you expect me not to be forgetful at times, 
with such things in my head ? . . . ” 

“ Yes,” interrupted the woman in a voice choked by 
emotion or by prudence, “yes, but you will never deceive 
me, will you % You do not, you cannot know what 1 suf- 
fer when such a thought enters my brain. . . .” 

“ Come,” repeated the unknown, “ this is mere trifling. 
I do not recognize you there ; you, the intrepid heart, the 
brave soul, you allow yourself to be cast down by such 
puerile presentiments ! ” . 

“ You would recognize me quick enough, if you were 
ever to betray me, Fleur-de-Lys ! ” 

“Indeed I would ; it is for that reason that I love you, 
my jDi’oud girl, that I love you tenderly.” 

These words and the tone in which they were uttered 


308 


BELLAH. 


seemed to restore some confidence to the woman; she 
abandoned her hand to the man she had called Fleur-de- 
Lys, and began speaking to him with passionate vivacity, 
blit so low that she conld only be heard by him. Hear- 
ing a noise in the thicket, she rose suddenly, and grasping 
her companion’s arm, she murmured in a voice vibrating 
with suppressed terror, “ My father ! ” At the same 
instant, another sound struck their attentive ears ; it was 
like the sharp click produced by the cocking of a fire-arm. 
The woman was unable to suppress another gesture of 
alarm ; she concealed her face in her hands and held her 
breath. 

After a few seconds of anxiety ; “ Come, my dear 
child,” said Fleur-de-Lys, ‘‘ it’s nothing. Night and the 
woods are filled with such unaccountable noises.” And 
at the same time he started across the path. As soon as 
they had passed by him and disappeared in the darkness, 
the stranger, whom chance had made a witness of this 
mysterious scene, left the shelter he had sought behind 
the huge trunk of a spruce-tree, and bringing down the 
hammer of a pistol he held in his hand : • 

“ It is not my sister ! ” he said. “ Tis she ! I must 
wait.” 


BELL AH 


309 


X. 


Quick ! a chair and a plate To the health of the com- 

mander.” — Moliere, LeFestin de Pierre, 

DuEma that same evening, some tv^enty guests were 
gathered at supper in the dining-room of the Chateau de 
Kergant, a vast hall wainscoted in oak up to the very 
ceiling. Mademoiselle Andree de Pelven occupied with 
more grace than majesty the right of the Marquis de 
Kergant, while the canoness held her brother’s left with 
more majesty than grace. Mademoiselle de Kergant, 
severe and smiling as a young queen, was seated opposite 
the marquis, glancing with discreet solicitude over the 
circle of guests, and resuming from time to time her ob- 
servations by orders given sotto voce to some lackeys in 
scarlet livery who stood behind her. 

The lackeys, as well as their scarlet livery, may seem 
rather out of place, in the midst of a flagrant civil war 
but the canoness Eleonore was in favor of keeping up 
rank to the last extremity ; she had found much fault 
with the unfortunate queen on account of certain breacjlies 
of etiquette, which had been, according to her judgment, 
the principal cause of the French Ke volution ; she admired 
greatly the Koman Senators awaiting the enemy seated on 
their ivory chairs ; and the scarlet livery of her lackeys, 
obstinately kept up at her own private expense, seemed to 
her a worthy match for that lieroic trait of the ancients. 
There was the same decorum and the same spirit of dis- 


310 


BELLAS. 


play in the rest of the service : the brilliantly lighted table 
was covered with silverware and valuable china ; it was 
served with that excessive abundance which was then as 
now peculiar to provincial habits. 

If the marquis and his sister had succeeded in flattering 
their memories and deceiving their regrets by this pomp 
and parade borrowed from better days, their success went 
no further than the mise en scene of the repast ; tlie ac- 
tors by no means seconded the illusion : more than one 
among them wore the coarse jacket of a peasant ; hands 
made callous at the plow handled the emblazoned silver. 
The marquis called heroes, and rightly so, those rustic 
guests whom a few years before he scarce acknowledged 
as men. Thus, that revolution which the old gentleman 
fought desperately outside had gained a foothold at his 
domestic flreside ; he treated it nobly at his family table ; 
the foremost of its boons prevailed there, the only social 
equality that is not the vision of a utopist or -an ignoble 
dream of envy, that whicjh brings together at the same 
banquet of honor every virtue, every talent, and every 
courage. The plebeian coif of Alix, the game-keeper’s 
daughter, shone at one end of the table, and added a 
graceful detail to all tliese contrasts. M. de Kergant, 
a generous spirit when his natural disposition was not 
warped by passion, had desired to reward by this favor 
the devotion which the girl had manifested towards her 
companions in exile. The punctilious canoness could 
hardly close her eyes to the fact that such a medley of 
habits and costumes was fatal in the extreme to pure 
classic traditions ; she felt in the innermost recesses of her 
heart the blow which such » a discordance struck to her 
scarlet lackeys, but she consoled herself by attributing a 


BELLAS. 


311 


religious coloring to this mortification : she compared 
these mixed gatherings to theagapes of the early Christians.' 

The conversation was quite in keeping with the general 
style of the entertaintment, and became more gay and 
more animated as the supper progressed. The mirth was 
at its height, when M. de Kergant suddenly saw his 
daughter rise, then stand erect and motionless, with pallid 
cheeks, and eyes fixed with an expression of stupor to- 
wards the entrance-door. Half tiie guests had at the same 
time turned their looks in the same direction with an ex- 
pression of extreme surprise, and even of alarm. M. de 
Kergant glanced around hastily, and discovered near the 
door Major Ilerve in his republican uniform, bare- 
headed and unarmed. The marquis rose ; Andree had 
uttered a scream. 

Monsieur le Marquis,” said at once Pelven, whose 
grave and gentle features were slightly altered by fatigue 
and emotion, I have come to crave your hospitality. 
For reasons which you can easily guess, there is no longer 
any safety for me in the republican ranks. Warned in 
time of the fate tliat awaited me, I thought it would be 
madness rather than courage not to try and escape from 
it. If I have placed too much reliance on your old friend- 
ship, sir, I shall go and drag elsewhere a miserable exist- 
ence which is no longer acceptable to that terrible cause 
to which I had made so many sacrifices.” 

All the guests had listened to the young ofilcer’s words 
in gloomy silence ; all eyes were riveted upon the marquis, 
whose features had lost their transient expression of 
cheerful good-nature to resume the character of noble 
severity that was habitual to them. “Monsieur de 
Pelven,” he said, taking a step towards his unexpected 


312 


BELLAS. 


guest ; but instead of going on with the solemn phrase 
which this beginning announced, he grasped suddenly the 
young man by the hand, and clasping him to his breast : 

“ Herve,” he exclaimed in a tender voice, “ my son, my 
child, be thrice w^elcome ! ” 

This reception, which Ilerve had not dared to hope for, 
moved him to the depths of his heart. As he received 
the old gentleman’s warm embrace he felt a freezing chill 
running through his veins. The thought of the double 
part he was playing for the first time in his life crossed his 
mind like a remorse, and while he stammered the words 
gratitude and devotion, a deeper glow colored his bronzed 
cheeks ; but his eye having suddenly met the fiashing look 
of the individual who sat on Mademoiselle de Kergant’s 
right, he recovered immediately all the firmness of his 
resolution. 

In the meantime, the marquis had turned towards his 
guests : 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, ‘‘here is the son of the Count 
de Pelven. lie has been carried away towards revolu- 
tionary ideas by the enthusiasm of youth that led some of 
our greatest names astray at the deceptive dawn of these 
days of mourning. I have no doubt that he has long 
since acknowledged and deplored his illusions. Circum- 
stances of which you are aware have just shattered the 
fetters which a mistaken feeling of honor had forged for 
him. I beg you to receive him as a brave man and the 
son of my affection.” 

The guests answered with a hearty cheer accompanied 
by the loud click of glasses; one alone, the very one 
who, notwithstanding his youth, seemed to be the first 
among them, merely bowed with polite gravity. 


BELLAH. 


813 


Herve, at the invitation of the marquis, had taken a 
seat the side of Andree, who was overwhelming him 
with her transports, mingled with laughter and tears. 
Mademoiselle de Kergant, more reserved or more keen- 
sighted, had bestowed upon the companion of her 
childhood no evidence of welcome save a sad and cold 
smile ; the glances she cast stealthily upon him appeared 
fraught with a sentiment of doubt and anxiety. 

All awkward silence was gradually succeeding the 
tumultuous agitation of which the arrival of the republi- 
can had been the occasion. Mademoiselle de Kergant’s 
remarkable neighbor had alone retained his air of easy 
superiority; he w^as endeavoring, with a solicitude full 
of good taste, to revive the conversation which the 
presence of a hated uniform seemed to have chilled on 
the lips of the assistants. The tone of his voice, of a 
melodious and slightly metallic sonority, struck Ilerve’s 
memory. The young officer understood at once that he 
had before him that mysterious chief, the enemy and the 
rival he had come to seek, the royalist hero who had in 
such short time carried so liigh the fame of his nom-de- 
guerre. He scrutinized him with deep and sombre curi- 
osity. He w^as a man of the smallest statui’e compatible 
with grace and manly beauty ; he might have been from 
twenty-five to thirty years of age ; black hair encompassed 
his broad and lofty forehead ; his mouth was somewhat 
effeminate, but this slight weakness was more than com- 
pensated by the. proud brow, the bold lines of an aquiline 
nose with somewhat expanded nostrils, and above all by 
the almost dazzling lustre of his eyes. 

Pel veil fancied that he recognized in the physiognomy 
of the unknown some of the characteristic features of 
14 


314 


BELLAH, 


an illustrious family ; but he owed to bis patrician educa- 
tion details too precise and minute on the personnel of 
the house of Bourbon not to see at once that none of 
the names attributed to the young chief by public 
opinion could possibly belong to him. Whoever he 
might be, however, his attitude and manners were those 
of a sovereign ; no one seemed to question his right to 
act as a prince, and he used it with an assurance tem- 
pered by the most exquisite politeness. His words ran 
like a flame around the circle of guests, rapid, affable, 
persuasive, penetrating the rudest as well as the most 
cultivated minds, fitting a jest or a compliment to the 
taste and the habits of each with wonderful flexibility 
of tone and language. Every fascination, every kind of 
success seemed promised to that gifted nature which 
united a sort of voluptuous grace to the imposing attrac- 
tion of strength, and who spoke with the same eloquence 
to soldiers and to women. However, that rich medal 
could not fail to have its reverse : a delicate judge 
would have been shocked at tlie very brilliancy of so 
many resources and qualities thrown out, as it were, 
without reserve, and which might suggest a doubt as to 
anything remaining beliind. It seemed more natural 
to accept this young man for a master than to take him 
for a friend. 

Her VC could not help starting when he heard his 
name spoken by him who was the object of his eager 
attention, and to whom we shall hereafter give his sur- 
name of Fleur- de-Lys : 

“ Monsieur de Pelven,” he said, raising his glass, “ will 
you allow me to drink to the fortunate accident to which 


BELLAH. 


315 


we are indebted for the advantage, highly appreciated 
by ns, of possessing you 

“ Monsieur,” replied Herve making an effort to smile, 

“ unless I am very much mistaken it is to you that 
thanks should be returned, if, however, there be any 
thanks due at all.” 

‘‘Mon Dieu ! Monsieur le Comte,” replied Fleur-de- 
Lys in an earnest and affectionate tone, “unless I am 
very much mistaken myself, you do not quite forgive 
me the liberty I took of disposing of your services with- 
out your consent.” 

“ Ma foi. Monsieur,” said Herve gayly, “ I confess that 
1 have not forgotten a certain blow ...” 

“ Ah ! thank Heaven ! I haven’t that on my con- 
science. George, I beg of you, my friend, do assume , 
the responsibility of your own doings. I don’t want 
your fist to stand between Monsieur de Pelven and my- 
self. There is the guilty man, my dear count,” added 
the young man, showing to Herve a sort of square- 
shouldered and round-headed peasant, whose loose cravat 
displayed a herculean neck. “You’ll forgive George, I 
am sure, when you see him in action.” 

“ Excuse me. Monsieur le Comte,” said George with a 
low laugh, “ the safety of us all was at stake, and 
besides, a blow with the fist is no disgrace.” 

“ I don’t say it was a disgrace, my friend,” rejoined 
Herve, “but it hurt me. I suppose. Monsieur George, 
that you were one of the ladies who were washing their 
clotlies that night in the valley of Groach ? May I ask 
you, without indiscretion, the object of that amiable 
masquerade ? ” 

“ Ah ! don’t speak of it ! ” said Fleur-de-Lys ; “ these 


316 


BELLAS. 


Bretons are brave to madness ! they got up that piece of 
nonsense for my reception, and- it gave us no little 
trouble.” 

And may I know, Monsieur George,” rejoined 
Ilerve, in virtue of what witchery you succeeded in 
receiving our fire with impunity ?” 

“ Ah ! monsieur,” replied George, “ my boj^s are cool in 
action, you see. I have trained them to charge against 
artillery by throwing themselves down flat on the ground, 
from time to time, to let the grape-shot pass over. . . . 
You saw with what precision they executed that manoeu- 
vre.” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant rose from the table as the 
intrepid partisan concluded these words ; she took the 
hand which Fleur-de-Lys offered her, and all the guests 
followed them into an adjoining parlor, decorated with 
family portraits. While the company, scattered in groups 
throughout the room, indulged in one of those expansive 
conversations which usually succeed a hearty meal, 
Ilerve withdrew into the deep embrasure of a window. 
He had scarce been there a moment, when be saw Bellah 
approaching with a smiling and absent appearance, drop- 
ping a few words here and there to the bystanders , but 
changing her tone and her countenance as soon as she 
w^as close to him : 

“What have you come here for, Ilerve?” she said 
rapidly and in a whisper. 

“ I call upon God to witness,” replied the young man, 
“ that I would have suffered the most ignominious death 
rather than to set my foot here, if I could have sus- 
pected what I was to see and to hear.” 


BELLAH. 317 

Is this a riddle, Monsieur de Pelven ? ” asked JBellah 
with that hanghtj calm wliich was one of her charms. 

“ I was in the sprnce-wood an hour ago, Bellali ! ” 

In the spruce-wood ? ” repeated Mademoiselle de 
Kergant, replying to Ilerve’s accusing glance witli a look 
of virginal limpidity. Her father’s voice calling her 
cut short that explanation ; the giiil shrugged her shoul- 
ders slightly, raised her beautiful eyes to heaven, and 
went off with a pensive air. 

When we wonder at the ease with which a man of sense 
permits himself to be deceived by the woman he loves, 
we forget the natural tendency of our heart to hope. 
A single word, a gesture of surprise, had been sufficient to 
almost entirely overcome in Herve’s mind the evidence 
which but a moment before had seemed irrefutable to 
him. He remembered the proud and innocent soul of 
his adopted sister, he still saw the pure light of her eyes, 
and he reproached himself already having insulted, on 
mere suspicion, a creature worthy of his respect. And 
yet that scene in the spruce-wood was a positive reality. 
At the very moment when this recollection wafe exciting 
fresh pangs in Herve’s heart, a woiiKiU grazed, as she 
went by, the curtain behind which he was half concealed ; 
he looked up and recognized Alix’s pale and energetic 
face. However unlikely might be the idea which this 
vision suddenly suggested to the young man’s mind, he 
greeted it nevertheless as a confirmation of his doubts 
and his hopes ; but as he again turned his attention to 
a group in which both Bellah and Fleur-de-Lys figured, 
Herve was able to satisfy himself that if the young 
royalist hero had not as yet all the claims he supposed to 
his hatred, he at least neglected nothing to obtain them. 


318 


BELLAH. 


It was easy to see that Bellali’s presence lifted him above 
himself, and that he was striving to please her ; it was 
to her that his eyes dedicated each one of his words ; 
he displayed to her all the wealth of his imagination ; he 
surrounded her with all his prestige as within a magic 
circle. Bellah, whatever might be the depth of her 
impressions, was evidently under the charm of that 
fascination ; Herve even read in her eyes a sort of pas- 
sionate admiration that roused up at once all his doubts 
and all his anger. 

Bemembering the real object of his journey to Ker- 
gant, he regretted not liaving yet laid aside his assumed 
role and keeping his mask longer than necessary. He 
went up without affectation to his formidable rival, and 
availing himself of a moment when the latter had ceased 
speaking : 

“ Monsieur,” he said to him, ‘^may I crave the favor 
of a brief conversation with you before binding myself 
forever to the cause which you so worthily represent? 
I am certainly not in a position to set a price upon my 
services, but my character among you needs to be clearly 
defined, for your satisfaction as well as for my own, and 
I may add, for my honor. I believe I am not mistaken, 
sir, in attributing to you all the authority necessary to 
decide without appeal everything that concerns me.” 

The piercing eye of the young royalist had not- ceased, 
during this speech, to study attentively the features of the 
speaker ; a peculiar smile appeared on his lips as he re- 
plied : 

I am wholly at your command. Monsieur de Pelven, 
and you do but anticipate my own wishes. . . . The 
weather is fine, I believe ; . . . will a stroll through the 


BELLAH. 


319 


garden suit your convenience % We can chat there quite 
at our ease.” Herve bowed. “ But, mon Dieu ! my dear 
frieiid,” added Fleur-de-Lys, addressing the Marquis de 
Kergant, “ are we treating M. de Pelven as a prisoner % 
I see that he has no sword ; that is for a brave soldier 
like him quite an undeserved mortification, and which 
will not last a minute longer, if you’ll have any consider- 
ation for my request.” 

“You remind me. Monsieur le Due,” said the mar- 
quis, “ that the moment has come to restore to Herve a 
part of his inheritance from which I have deprived him 
thus far.” 

While speaking, the Marquis had gone up to a console, 
and taking up a sword that lay upon it, he presented it 
to Herve : 

My dear child,” he added, “ this belongs to you ; 
your father’s sword could only arm a faithful hand. I 
hand it to you, trusting that it shall never be turned 
against our holy cross and our sacred fieur-de-lys.” 

At the last wwds the young duke smiled again. 

I’ll warrant you in behalf of M. de Pelven,” he said, 
“ that your confidence is not misplaced . . . and that it 
comes just in time,” he added in 9, lower tone, turning on 
his heels and going towards tho door. 

Pelven buckled on the sword, thanking M. de Kergant 
with that rather cold reserve which had characterized, 
since his arrival, all his conduct towards the marquis, and 
which the latter attributed to the natural embarrassment 
of this compulsory return. After which he followed 
Pleur-de-Lys out of the parlor. 

The two young men passed through a vestibule hung with 
old armors, crossed a bridge thrown over the moat, and 


320 


BELLAS. 


soon reached the garden. By a tacit agreement they kept 
on walking rapidly, as if they conld not find a sufficiently 
lonely spot for the explanation that was preparing, the 
nature of which both seemed to have fully appreciated. 
As they were approaching the spruce-grove, the sound of 
hurried footsteps was heard behind them. They stopped, 
and the next moment Mademoiselle de Kergant overtook 
them. 

“ I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” she said in a panting 
voice ; “ Monsieur Herve, I must speak to yon.” 

Herve could not suppress a gesture of impatience. 

“ Pray excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said ; “ but you 
heard the request I addressed to Monsieur . . . Monsieur 
le Due ; he was kind enough to grant it, and he would 
have the right to question my courtesy were I to de- 
fer ...” 

“Monsieur Le Due,” interrupted Eellah with vivacity, 
“ is too courteous himself to refuse to yield me his 
turn.” 

“ Most assuredly,” said Fleur-de-Lys in a constrained 
tone that was not usual with him, “ Mademoiselle de Ker- 
gant cannot expect of me anything but absolute submission 
to her least wishes ; but Monsieur de Pelven Avould be 
Tin just towards me if he thought he were the only one 
annoyed by this delay.” 

Bowing low after these words, the young chief left the 
place and disappeared fn the depths of the wood. 
Mademoiselle de Kergant walked a few steps back into 
the garden, until she was quite sure that her words could 
OTily be heard by him for whom they were intended. 

“ Herve,” she said then, stopping and touching his arm, 
‘‘ it must not be ; it cannot be ! ” 


BELLAS. 


321 


“ What do you mean ? ” replied Herve ; you are cer- 
tainly mistaken as to my intentions.” 

“ No more so than he has been himself ; but it shall 
not be, no, not if I have to go for my father and tell him 
everything. Do not drive me to such a dreadful extrem- 
ity, Herve, I beg of you.” 

“ Such an extremity is quite unnecessary, since 3"Ou 
may, with a single word, remove all wish and all reasona- 
ble pretext on my part to carry the matter further ; but 
listen t 6 me : if you refuse to speak that word, I swear to 
you that there will only be left for you to surrender me 
to death with your own hands, for you know your father. 
Bellah, the woman I saw an hour ago, near by here, 
in that young man’s arms . . . that woman, — come, 
speak ! ” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant staggered ; she went to lean 
againH the pedestal of a statue, and remained for some 
time downcast and silent ; her breathing was quick and 
painful ; at last she spoke, without raising her eyes. 

‘ I was that woman ! ” she said, in a smothered tone. 

“You! you! powers of heaven!” exclaimed Herve, 
stepping back with a look of terror. “ And so,” he re- 
sumed after a brief pause, — “ yes, I wish to hear it again 
from 3'our own lips, — and so he is yoiir lover ? ” 

Bellah hid her face in her two hands, and her voice, 
faint as a sigh, murmured : “ Yes, my lover.” 

“ Yery well ! Farewell ! ” said Herve. 

“Where are you going?” rejoined Mademoiselle de 
Kergant, grasping Herve’s hand wuth a wild gesture ; 
“ what is to become of you ? what do you wish ? what am 
I to tell my father ? ” 

“ Tell him I had come here as a spy, load me with the 
14 =" , . 


322 


BELLAH. 


vilest names, it matters not ; your lips can no longer cast 
disgrace on any one. Farewell ! ” 

As he littered this last word, Herve shook off gently 
the hand that held his and walked off rapidly, while Bel- 
lah fell distracted on her knees before the pedestal, lier 
hair untied and her bosom rent with sobs, the image of a 
supplicant at the foot of an antique altar. 


BELLAH. 


323 


XI. 

“ Vous m’etes en dormant un pen triste appam ; 

J’ai craint qu’il ne fut vrai, je suis vite accoum.” 

La Fontaine, Les Deux Amis. 

Pelven cleared the ditch that divided the garden from 
the adjoining meadow, and returned into the avenue 
through a gate, in the fence to which his horse was still 
fastened. The poor animal, forgotten amid so many 
cares, uttered a feeble neigh on recognizing his master, 
and stretched forward his tired head to implore a caress. 
Every man has experienced in the course of his life one 
of those hours of ingratitude when a manifestation of af- 
fection on the part of the humblest being penetrates our 
souls and renders keener the thought of our loneliness. 
When our hearts are full, it takes but little to make them 
overflow. 

Herve, murmuring a few indistinct words, petted with 
his hand his old companion in perils and battles, then he 
sat down by the roadside and two tears fell from his eyes. 
After a few minutes given to bitter meditation, the young 
man rose and drew himself up proudly as if to face his 
destiny. There is at least this good in the certainty of 
misfortune, that it removes all pretext for these alterna- 
tives of hope and fear which enervate the soul. In what- 
ever direction Herve turned his thoughts, it met but grief, 
obstacles, and a sort of impossibility to live. The past 
and the future both failed him at once ; the dreams of 


324 


BELLAS. 


noble activity, of services rendered, of glory conquered, 
all the manly consolations from which a man may seek 
forgetfulness for useless weakness and quiet for a re- 
jected heart, all was denied him. Against all prevision, 
his mad enterprise had saved neither his love nor his 
honor, and yet it had left him his life. Alone in this hos- 
tile country, what hope could he now entertain of recon- 
quering by some glorious deed the esteem of his friends ? 
Equally suspected by both parties, a traitor in the eyes of 
one or the other, where could he go now? Under what 
tent or in what hut could he shelter even for a night his 
head, threatened by the vengeance of both camps? 

Absorbed in these blind reflections, the young man had 
reached the extremity of the avenue, when his ear was 
suddenly struck by the measured cadence of a military 
march ; before lie could place himself on guard, he was 
surrounded with bayonets and felt the point of a sword 
on his breast : 

“ Surrender, whoever you may be ! ” said a brief and 
imperious voice. 

“ Francis ! ” exclaimed Pelven. 

“ Herve ! ” replied the little lieutenant, drawing back his 
sword and grasping his friend’s hand. Herve ! Heaven 
be praised ! I had lost all hope of finding you alive.” 

“ Francis ! ” repeated Herve at the height of surprise, 
what means this ? ” Where are you from ? . . . How 
have you been able ? . . . Who have you there ? ” 

‘‘ We,” said a harsh voice, “the Fearless band, Colibri 
and myself, who have come to seek our commander or 
death, on account of the moral effect.” 

“Ah! my old Bruidoux,” rejoined Herve, “you don’t 
believe I am a traitor, then ? ” 


BELLAH. 


325 


“ll^onsense, major! didn’t we all swallow the Scotch- 
woman trick ? all but Colibri, who has a remarkably keen 
scent for his age.” 

But in the name of Heaven, Francis,” interrupted 
Herve, how have you been able to follow so close on to 
me, and to penetrate thus far ? Where is the general ? 
Wliere is the army ? ” 

‘^A little farther off than I would like, major. But 
before all, tell me what progress you have made in your 
adventure ; did you succeed in getting into the chateau? ” 
“ I did, and I found those I was looking for. But be- 
yond that, I failed completely and cruelly. Ask me no 
more. How advise me of what has taken place, for I 
know not as yet whether I must rejoice at this meeting 
or not.” 

Francis, having then taken the major aside, told him 
that during the very night that followed his departure 
the republican army had struck camp ; the main body 
was already at Ploermel ; three battalions, among which 
Herve’s command, had even pushed forward as far as the 
little deserted town Pelven had passed through in the 
morning. There was a rumor that the forces of the Whites 
were concentrated a little farther north, at Pontivy. 
The general, anxious for Herve’s safety, had enjoined 
Francis to do all in his power to rescue their mutual 
friend, should an opportunity offer to do so without exces- 
sive imprudence. Francis, tinding himself within three 
short leagues of Kergant, had determined to advance that 
far by a night-march. He had taken with him some 
sixty men, made up principally of- those who had formed 
the emigrants’ escort. Tinder shelter of the darkness, the 
little troop had met with no obstacle through that de- 


326 


BELLAH. 


serted region. Francis inquired then of the young major 
whether the chateau had a numerous garrison, and 
whether they were not running the risk of being sur- 
rounded. Ilerve replied that he had seen no trace of 
garrison either in the chateau, or in the vicinity, that 
there seemed to be no suspicion as yet of the approach of 
the republican army, and that some fifteen royalist ofii- 
cers had just quietly taken supper there. He added a few 
p .rticulars as to Fleur-de-Lys individually, whose real 

.me he thought w^as not such as to justify the apprehen- 
- >ns of the general-in-chief. “ And now, what do you 
eypect to do? ” Herve added. 

‘AVhy, really, major, if such is the case, we cannot 
dispense laying hands on that nestful of rebels. The 
capture of Fleur-de-Lys would be equivalent to a vic- 
tory.” 

“ That is impossible 1 ” said Herve quickly. 

‘‘ Impossible ! Why so ? Nothing is more simple, on 
the contrary, according to the very information you have 
just furnished me yourself ; and unless I am greatly mis- 
taken, it must be a sad neglect of our duty not to avail 
ourselves of it.” 

Do you pretend to teach me my duty, sir ? ” ex- 
claimed Herve. 

Major Herve ! ” said the young lieutenant in a tone 
of painful surprise. 

“Well, yes, ... yes ... I am wrong, a thousand 
times wrong, it’s true,” replied Herve, whose agitation 
was extreme ; “ our duty here is indeed evident, incon- 
testable ; but how can I lend a hand to this violence, 
which may perhaps end in bloodshed, — and against whom ? 
Against my father’s friend, the protector of my child- 


BELLAH. 


827 


hood ? How can I go and collar this old man in his own 
house, in the very house where he treated me for so long 
as his own son ? That is impossible, Francis ! And these 
women ? Must I arrest them too ? And that young man 
himself, whoever he may be, does it behoove me to take 
him prisoner ? No, all this is odious, impossible, I repeat 
. . . and at the peril of my life I shall neither do it nor 
suffer it to be done.” 

“ I trust, major, that I can show you the necessity under 
which we find ourselves in a less unpleasant light. The 
general foresaw what might occur if I found you at Ker- 
gant ; his instructions meet all your scruples. He en- 
joined me first of all to arrest no women ; concerning M. 
de Kergant, as his name has not yet been openly com- 
promised in the hostile acts which have broken the treat- 
ies, the general will leave him free to cross over into Eng- 
land. You see that by using the great advantage chance 
has placed in our hands, far from injuring M. de Kergant, 
we will really prevent him from consummating his own 
ruin ; for this desperate war cannot fail sooner or later 
to destroy both himself and liis friends.” Herve made a 
sign of acquiescence. “ And as to Fleur-de-Lys,” added 
Francis, he is not a Bourbon, you say ? ” 

I am convinced of it.” 

“ In that case, wlioever he may be, he will only be a 
prisoner like any other of the same class. The general 
pledges himself to treat them as if they had voluntarily 
surrendered ; they will merely be detained until the end 
of the war.” 

“ I cannot but believe you, Francis,” said Herve, and, 
it being so, I cannot l)ut express a wish for your success 
in the very interest of those whom I once loved so much. 


828 


BELLAH. 


Go, then, and do as you think best ; but in my present 
situation I have no right to command your men, even if 
I wished to do so. Do your duty, I tell you ; as to my- 
self, whether I am doing mine or not, I will not follow 
you.” 

Francis, though evidently annoyed at this resolution, 
feared lest further objections might seem dictated b}^ an 
after-thought unworthy of him, and without adding a 
word he ordered his men to fall into line ; but Herve 
suddenly changed his mind. It appeared to him that in 
abstaining from taking part in the drama that was pre- 
paring, he was yielding to a sentiment of weakness 
rather than to a genuine point of honor. His presence 
might at least mitigate the effects of a catastrophe now 
become inevitable ; his age and his rank would inspire a 
degree of confidence which might be refused the young 
lieutenant ; it depended upon him, perhaps, to prevent 
bloody scenes from desolating that almost paternal abode, 
the home of liis sister. Flerve communicated these 
thoughts to Francis, and declared that he would accom- 
pany him, but that he left him the command and the en- 
tire direction of the enterprise, merely wishing not to be 
absent himself. 

The little troop then started again. They made a halt 
before the lateral fence that marked the centre of the 
avenue ; thanks to Pelven’s friendly disclosures, the young 
lieutenant had long liad in his mind a detailed plan of 
Kergant ; he ordered Bruidoux to cross the meadow with 
twenty grenadiers, to scale the garden through the breach, 
and to occupy on that side the entrance to the chateau. 
The old building, surrounded on all sides by water, liad 
no communication with the outside save the two bridges 


BELLAS. 


329 


wliich had taken the place of the drawbridges, one of 
which gave access to the garden, and the other to the 
court-yard. Every means of escape was therefore now 
closed to the marquis and his guests. In the meantime, 
Pelven had removed liis horse’s saddle and bridle, and 
had turned him loose to graze in the meadow. 

Reduced to some fifty men, the republican column 
continued to advance cautiously towards the chateau. 
Such was the perfect security in which the occupants of 
the building were lulled, that the soldiers reached the head 
of the bridge without interference. Tlie gate was open ; 
some ten or twelve steps led to the threshold of the vesti- 
bule. Francis, leaving one half his men in the court- 
yard, walked rapidly up the steps accompanied by Pelven 
and followed by the rest of the grenadiers. 

Two or three lackeys who stood in the vestibule, struck 
with amazement at this sudden invasion, attempted no 
resistance. Francis, having made sure that Bruidoux 
occupied the post assigned to him, gave orders to commit 
no violence, but to allow no one to go out ; he then 
started through the rooms that preceded the parlor, the 
lighted windows of whicli he had noticed from outside. 
The young lieutenant, through a scruple which it is un- 
necessary to explain, took all these measures without 
addressing a single question to Ilerve ; the latter still 
followed him like his shado\\^ In the main hall, where 
the supper had taken place, they found the game-keeper, 
Kado, who, at tlie sight of the bayonets, stood dumb and 
with gaping mouth, as if petrified. 

“ Kado,” said Ilerve, breaking the gloomy silence he 
had hitherto maintained, “ no noise, no useless struggle 1 
The chateau is occupied in force.” 


330 


BELLAH. 


“ Good Lord ! ” miirmored Kado, is it possible, Mon- 
sieur Herve ! you ! it is you who ...” 

Silence ! You had better join me to prevent greater 
disasters. Every one’s life shall be safe. Who have we 
here ? ” pointing to the adjoining parlor. 

“ The ladies, all the poor ladies . . . . and M. le Mar- 
quis.” 

“ The others ? ” 

The others have all gone except M. George and . . . 
O Lord ! Master Herve, is it possible ? ” 

And Fleur-de-Lys?” said Herve. 

The game-keeper was wringing his hands in despair. 

If the lieutenant will permit,” Herve went on, “ Kado 
will precede us, out of consideration for the poor 
women.” 

Walk in, Kado,” replied Francis. 

Kado seemed to hesitate; then, on a significant ges- 
ture from Herve, he opened the parlor-door. He stopped 
on the threshold, casting an uncertain glance over the 
circle of frightened women, as if unable to find words ; 
at last, with the voice of a judge uttering a sentence of 
death : 

“ The Blues ! ” he said. 

The two republican ofiicers, bareheaded and with their 
swords in the scabbards, entered the parlor at once. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Francis, “the chateau is surrounded. 
You are my prisoners.” 

A moment of silence followed this declaration. An- 
dree, on seeing her brother, had lifted her arms with a 
heart-rending expression ; her head leaned over her 
shoulder, and then the innocent victim sank gently, like 
a flower mowed at the base. Herve ran to support her, 


BELLAB. 


331 


but Bellah anticipated him : with the help of Alix, she 
laid upon an arm-chair the inanimate body of her adopted 
sister, and wheeled it to an open window. 

Pelven turning then towards the marquis : 

“ Monsieur,” he said, “ this misfortune is not mj work ; 
I was unable either to foresee or prevent it. I dare not 
hope that you will do justice to the sentiment that 
prompted me to witness the poignant trials which I 
expected. I only wish to tell you that I have no power, 
no right here save that of prayer. I beg you, sir, not to 
aggravate by a useless resistance the blow that strikes 
you. Rely on this young officer’s word ; he has the en- 
tire confidence of the general-in-chief.” 

And who will guarantee me your own word?” said 
the marquis. 

“Speak, Francis,” rejoined Herve, “and above all, re- 
spect those who cannot reply to an insult.” 

Pelven then moved off to one side, and stood motion- 
less aganist the wall, as if resolved to take no further 
part in what was going on. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Francis in his turn, after beckon- 
ing to the soldiers to leave the parlor, “ I should have 
hesitated to take charge of this expedition, had not the 
general’s generosity greatly lightened its burden. Here 
are the terms he has authorized me to offer you.” 

The young lieutenant then informed the royalist chiefs, 
who listened not without repeated manifestations of sur- 
prise, of the respect he had been recommended to observe 
towards the women, and of the leniency with which 
Hoche expected to treat the prisoners. 

“I must warn you, however, gentlemen, that our gen- 
eral has not the necessary powers to dispose at his pleas- 


332 


BELLAH. 


Tire of a member of the ex-royal family: you alone aro 
able to say whether this restriction affects any one of 
you.” 

Francis having ceased to speak, the marquis held a 
brief consultation with his two guests. It was Fleur-de- 
Lys who then replied to the republican officer. 

“ On the part of your general, sir, no magnanimous 
deed can surprise us. We are aware that his engage- 
ments are equal to facts. Unfortunately, we also know 
that there is above him a power that may compel him to 
open his hands, bound tliough they may be by his word, 
and tear his captives from him. JSfow, this is a chance 
which we must positively decline to run. Here, Kado ! ” 

The game-keeper, in answer to appeal, came to stand 
by the side of his master. 

“ Am I to understand, sir,” said Francis, that you en- 
tertain the insane thought ...” 

. Of defending ourselves, yes, sir ! The struggle will 
be an unequal one, we know ; but soldiers deprived of 
their leaders do but poor work.” 

.While speaking thus, Fleur-de-Lys deliberately placed 
his naked sword under his left arm, and drew from inside 
his coat a pistol, which he cocked. His three compan- 
ions imitated his example at once. At this threatening 
moment. Mademoiselle de Kergant and the game-keeper’s 
daughter fell on their knees near the chair, upon which 
lay Andree still senseless. Francis fell back a step, draw- 
ing one of the pistols he carried in his belt : a furrow 
appeared on his brow, betokening gloomy anxiety, and he 
cast a furtive glance at Herve; but the latter, leaning 
against the wail, his arms folded across his chest, pre- 
served the same calm and apparently indifferent attitude. 


BELLAH. 


333 


Meantime, the grenadiers who were in the adjoinin 
room, attracted bj the click of steel, were again crowdin 
the doorway. 

“ Stand aside, lieutenant ! ” exclaimed one of the sol- 
diers, you’ll keep us from firing.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Francis again in a changed voice, 
“I conjure you once more, if you have any humanity, 
any feeling of pity for these unfortunate women ...” 

“ George,” interrupted Fleur-de-Lys with terrible viva- 
city, “ you may answer the gentleman.” Then suddenly 
taking position himself in front of Herve : Major 
Pelven ! ” he went on, “ in the name of Heaven, defend 
your life ! ” 

Herve shook his head slowly but did not stir. Fleur- 
de-Lys moved a few steps back ; a strange smile curled 
his lips, displaying his fine white teeth and imparting to 
his countenance an almost fierce expression; he raised 
his pistol deliberately ; but suddenly his hand dropped as 
if stricken with inertia, and the weapon fell upon the 
fioor. A sound wholly unaccountable at that critical 
hour, the sound of a sonorous and prolonged laugh, had at 
that moment suspended every threat and chilled every 
heart. 

That’s my sister ! ” said M. de Kergant in a whisper, 
in the midst of the deep silence that had succeeded the 
tumult of approaching battle. All eyes followed anx- 
iously the direction pointed by the old gentleman’s 
trembling hand ; the canoness, standing in the embrasure 
of a window, seemed gazing intently outward ; she kept 
on laughing, but at intervals her laugh broke into sobs. 
Suddenly, she turned towards the bystanders, and stag- 
gering forward a few steps towards her brother : 


aq CfQ 


384 


BELLAH. 


“ Wliy don’t yon langli ? ’’ she said. “ Have yon never 
seen a wedding? As soon as the fiddlers come we must 
dance ; . . . they won’t belong, for the groom is yonng and 
has not far to go. . . . These gentlemen are doubtless in- 
vited ? Jean, give some seats. . . . What a ^lovely 
night ! We would be better outside to dance . . . and 
then, there is no air here ... no air . . . what is it ? 
mon Dieu ! ” 

The old lady’s voice died away in a frightful rattle ; 
her head fell back, she \ittered a sharp shriek, and fell 
stiff and s-tark in her brother’s arms. 

As if paralyzed by the impression of this cruel scene, 
republicans and royalists followed all its details with 
pitying eyes, forgetting their quarrels and their dangers. 
The energetic countenance of .George himself showed 
evidences of irresolution and discouragement. Fleur-de- 
Lys exchanged a few rapid words with the rude partisan; 
after which, shrugging his shoulders with an air of resig- 
nation, he advanced towards Francis : 

“ Here are my arms,” he said ; this is enough misery 
for one night. We are ready to follow you. M. de Ker- 
gant will not contradict me, I am sure.” 

The marquis, turning his head slightly aside, made a 
sign of approbation. Francis expressed politely the re- 
gret he felt at having been the occasion of this domestic 
calamity : it was a real grief for him to increase it further 
still by tearing M. de Kergant away from such legitimate 
cares ; but he could not delay his departure a single moment 
without being remiss to his duty. He announced at the 
same time that Fleur-de-Lys, George, and the marquis 
would alone be compelled to accompany him ; that the 
other inhabitants of the chateau would be at liberty to 


BELLAH. 


335 


remain in it, but that they would be prisoners for a few 
hours, for lie would liave the bridges broken after leav- 
ing, in order that the alarm might not be spread through- 
out the country. The young lieutenant concluded by 
giving orders at once to the men to tear down the garden 
bridge. 

During these explanations, the canoness had recovered 
her senses ; but her strange and incoherent answers to 
her brother’s anxious questions showed that disorder still 
prevailed in her brain. The very gentleness of her in- 
sanity might create fears lest it were permanent. In 
another part of the. parlor, Andree, hanging to her 
brother’s neck and resting her head iqxm his breast, was 
giving free vent to her silent grief. 

Noticing that Fleur-de-Lys and George were already 
in the adjoining room, M. de Kergant turned hurriedly 
towards Francis: 

“ Shall I be free to see my family, sir ? ” he said. 

“ I have no doubt of it, sir.” 

‘‘ Well, then,” rejoined the marquis, “ it is needless to 
bid them adieu ; ” and he left the parlor in haste. Pel- 
ven, without uttering a word, had lifted Andree in his 
arms and laid her on the sofa near which stood Bellah. 
Before going out, he fixed his eyes upon Mademoiselle 
de Kergant, pointing to his sister’s helpless form ; then 
he went to join Francis, who had gathered all his men in 
the vestibule. 

Kado, who did not wish to leave his master, followed 
the detachment outside the chateau with the other three 
prisoners. While the soldiers were throwing into the 
moat the boards that formed the bridge, Francis requested 
Fleur-de-Lys to give him his word of honor that he would 


336 


BELLAH. 


not attempt to escape. Fleur-de-L^^s replied laiigliingly 
that, on the contrary, he gave it to him that he would 
do everything in his power to that effect. 

“I am sorry for that, sir,” replied Francis; “you 
compel me to exercise a strict and merciless surveillance.” 
The double line of grenadiers closed at once around tlie 
prisoners, and, as an additional precaution, eacli one was 
placed in the special charge of a soldier, who received 
rigid orders. These arrangements being completed, the 
column started down the avenue. 

Lieutenant Francis, rather proud at lieart of the success 
of his expedition, and relieved of the chief anxiety it had 
caused him, marched at tlie head with cheerful step, 
breathing serenely tiie cool night air, and slasliing the 
bushes with his sword. Ilerve, wrapped in his cloak, 
advanced at his side with more thoughtful gait. At the 
end of half an hour, they reached the banks of a small 
river running from west to east, on the left of the road 
followed by the detachment. 

“ If I am not mistaken, major,” said Francis, “ this 
river is the one that flows through the town where our 
advance battalions are quartered. You must know all 
this country at your Angers’ ends.” 

Flerve replied that he was not mistaken ; that the road 
which followed the river led directly to the little town 
which he had himself passed through in the morning, 
and that indeed the recollections of his childhood enabled 
him to retrace in his mind the least features of that 
region. 

But,” said Francis, “ it seems to me you might assume 
command again now.” 

“ No, indeed, my dear Francis, you acquit yourself too 


BELLAH. 337 

well for that. You have managed this whole affair in 
the most creditable manner.” 

“ Mon Dieii ! major, chance favored me much more 
than . . . than ... at any rate, thank Heaven, all is 
over as happily as possible.” 

“ I wish it may be so,” said Pelven. 

“ What ! have you noticed anything suspicious ? ” 

“ What do you think, Francis, of the old lady’s sudden 
insanity ^ ” 

“ It was assumed, think you ? ” exclaimed Francis. 

Perhaps it was part real and part assumed ; women 
have that singular faculty ; but until we have safely 
arrived, I shall fear that her crazy fit was the means of 
communicating some mysterious advice.” 

Herve interrupted himself on seeing suddenly a feeble 
and fugitive light dickering on the leaves of the trees 
that bordered the road. 

What is this ? ” said Francis, going up to the men. 

“ ISTothing, lieutenant,” replied Bruidoux; “the prison- 
ers lighting their pipes.” 

Francis ascertained that there was indeed no other 
cause for that interruption ; George and Kado, still en- 
closed within the ranks of the escort, were indulging in 
the innocent pastime of smoking. In the depth of the 
obscurity, the two little glowing furnaces cast an inter- 
mittent light over the group of captives. 

The young lieutenant joined Pelven again. The road 
which the column was now laboriously ascending wound 
between the base of some thickly wooded hills and the 
almost perpendicular banks of the river. 

“ I am sorry,” said Francis, casting an uneasy look 
around, “ not to have taken the other bank. I don’t like 
15 


338 


BELLAH. 


the looks of this defile, and then, I don’t know if my 
ears are ringing, whether it be the murmur of the river 
or the sound of the wind ; but don’t you hear a sort of 
agitation? . . 

‘‘Forbid the prisoners to smoke!” said Herve quickly. 

Francis turned to issue this order ; but before he had 
gone one step, a triple explosion lighted with a sudden 
fiash the hills and the road; at the same time, an im- 
mense shout rose on the heights that overlooked the pass. 
Three of the men who guarded the prisoners had fallen ; 
George knocked the other down with his fist, and rushed 
headlong like a mad bull in the direction of the hill, 
breaking the line of , grenadiers and opening a passage 
for his companions, who disappeared behind him in the 
depths of the thicket. A new storm of shouts burst 
forth, but subsided at once. A few random shots fired 
by the republicans had had no effect. 

The scene of this unexpected attack had been selected 
with ripe judgment. It was the highest point of the 
defile ; a short distance ahead, the road was blocked up 
by a black and moving mass which had rolled down from 
the hill like a torrent ; at the same time the vague mur- 
mur that still came from the heights like the sound of a 
stormy sea revealed the fact that they were still occupied 
by considerable forces. The republicans were lost if 
they took a single step backwards under the threat of this 
double hostile line. Ilerve’s first thought was to march 
ahead and cut his way through this living barrier at the 
point of the bayonet ; but he calculated that before over- 
taking it, he would have lost two-thirds of his men under 
the plunging fire from the hills ; and so the order was 
not given. 


BELLAH. 


339 


On the side opposed to the woods, the road expanded 
in a semi-circle, forming a sort of narrow promontory 
over a rocky cliff, the base of which disappeared in the 
water some thirty feet below. On this little cape a few 
trees with dense foliage and a thicket of tliorny bushes 
added their shades to those of the night. It was under 
shelter of this impenetrable darkness that the grenadiei’S 
had sought refuge in disorder in the first moment of 
surprise. Penned up within that little space, with the 
abyss behind them and an invisible enemy in front, they 
waited in silence. 

Lieutenent Francis,” said Herve, loud enough to be 
heard by the men, “ I resume command ! ” 

“ Good ! ” murmured Bruidoux, I am glad to hear it. 
Hot that I haven’t proper respect for the lieutenant, who 
is a famous bit of a man ; but here, by thunder, we want 
a whole man or never ! ” 

Herve ordered the soldiers to^ form in three lines fac- 
ing the road ; then, approaching the extreme edge of the 
cliff and leaning over the precipice at the bottom of 
which the river tumbled and foamed, he seemed to 
examine with extraordinary attention the steep slope of 
the bank. He then returned to take position by the side 
of Francis on the fiank of the detachment. 

“ Drowmed or shot, I suppose ? ” Francis asked -briefiy. 

“ Hush and listen,” said Herve. 

Fleur-de-Lys’ ringing voice had just risen from the 
thicket. 

“Major Pelven,” he said, “you hear me, do yon not?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Herve, stepping forward into the 
road in front of his men. 

“You are surrounded, sir,” rejoined TIeur-de-Lys. 


840 


BELLAS. 


“With the forces at my command, I can destroy you all 
to the last man without losing a drop of blood on our 
side, and I shall certainly do so if you compel me to. 
We know your courage and your devotion to your duty; 
but duty must stop in presence of impossibility. You 
had better surrender at once.” 

“Ill the position where I find myself, sir,” replied 
Ilerve, “ I can only answer after consulting my lieuten- 
ant ; will you give me time to do so 1 ” 

“ Go on, sir,” said Fleur-de-Lys. “We are in no 
hurry.” 

Herve going back to the young lieutenant, led him 
back in haste to the edge of the cliff. 

“ Listen to me well,” he said, amid the soldiers’ 
religious attention : “ we must pay those fellows back the 
joke they played upon us with their laundresses ; all we 
have to do to save our lives and our honor is what I 
have done twenty times myself out of pure bravado, on 
this very spot. Thanks to the darkness, our movements 
in this corner of the ground must be wholl}^ lost to the 
enemy. You see that recess in the rock? it is only a 
somewhat steep stairway with roots for balusters, leading 
about two-thirds the way down the cliff ; once there, you 
will find a perpendicular surface as smooth as a table; 
slide down boldly; you’ll fall on a narrow sandy ledge 
at the foot of the clifi ; enter the river opposite the 
vertical rock and walk across ; there is a ford there ; 
the water will reach your knees, probably your waist, if 
the river is high. Let every man keep his place until 
his turn comes. The sergeant will see that no man 
begins the descent before the preceding one is out of 
sight. As to myself, I shall negotiate as long as possible 


BELLAS. 


341 


to gain time. Come, boys, steady, now ! the lieutenant 
will show you the way. Hold on to the roots, Francis ! ” 
Francis attempted to reply; Herve dryly ordered him 
to obey. The next moment the youth had disappeared 
on the declivity of the precipice. One of the soldiers 
followed almost at once. This strange operation and 
this sudden prospect of escape had restored good-humor 
among the grenadiers. Bruidoux, kneeling on the edge 
of the rock, accompanied each departure with some jest- 
ing words of leave-taking : ‘‘A pleasant journey ! My 
compliments at home, my dear ! Kemeraber me to her, 
my boy ! Don’t waste your time on the way, you ! Take 
care yoh don’t get your feet wet, citizen ! Write when 
you get home ; eh, Colibri % ” 

Although this singular plan had required but a few 
moments to be explained and to receive a commence- 
ment of execution, Ilerve feared to excite distrust by 
longer delay ; he ordered Bruidoux to advise him when- 
ever the front rank rem’ained alone on the esplanade; 
and then returned to stand in the centre of the road. 

‘‘Well, sir,” he said, “here is what I can propose: 
I’ll surrender at discretion myself, and my lieutenant, 
with his men, will be allowed to join his corps without 
molestation.” 

“ You cannot mean that seriously, major,” said Fleur- 
de-Lys. “ When we have everything in our hands, we 
cannot be satisfied with only a part, important and 
precious though it may be.” 

“ I am obliged to you, sir,” said Herve, glad of an 
opportunity to protract the formalities ; “ I am obliged to 
you on my own personal account ; but if you show your- 
self too exacting, you may not get the best of us as easily 


342 


BELLAS. 


as you think. It is not wise to drive an enemy to 
despair, weak tliough ho may seem.” 

“I repeat, sir,” rejoined Fleur-de-Lys in a more 
threatening tone, “ that your proposition cannot be en- 
tertained. Have you nothing further to say ? ” 

“ What terms will you grant us if we surrender ? ” 

“ Your lives, provided you engage to serve under the 
King’s banner.” 

Your King to the devil! ” murmured Bruidoux, who 
had just touched Herve’s arm. Major,” he added, 
“ there is only the front rank left.” 

Have the men make ready to fire,” said Herve ; and 
falling back a few steps : Monsieur Fleur-de-Lys,” he 
said, “ those terms are disgraceful: we must refuse.” 

“ Hallo, there, boys ! ” shouted Fleur-de-Lys at once in 
a thundering voice ; “ tire on the esplanade 1 ” 

A broad belt of flame flashed from the hillside, and a 
formidable explosion woke up the echoes of the valley. 
By the rapid light of that discharge, the chouans saw 
plainly the first republican line, and could not suspect 
the disappearance of the others. Pelven liad foreseen 
that terrible chance, but relying on the uncertainty of 
firing in the dark and the scattering of his men behind 
the trees, he had preferred running that risk to allowing 
the enemy to guess too soon the secret of their escape. 
Three grenadiers only had fallen. 

“Fire 1 my boys,” said Herve, “and save yourselves.” 
Tlie republican platoon fired back, and then made for 
the river-bank with commendable celerity. Bruidoux 
persisted in staying by the major’s side, but he received 
the imperative order to follow his comrades. 

Herve left alone in the midst of a cloud of smoke that 


BELLAH. 


543 


made the darkness darker still, turned towards the hills, 
and raising his voice : “ Gentlemen,” he said, “ we are 

ready, my lieutenant and myself, to surrender at dis- 
cretion. . . 

“ Shout ‘ Long live the king! ’ ” replied Fleur-de-Lys ; 
“ shout, I beg of you, for you are a brave one after all ! ” 

“ Herve cast a rapid glance behind him ; fancying he 
still saw two or three shadows standing on the edge of 
the rock, the intrepid young man faced the enemy once 
more and tried to speak again : 

“ In order to save the rest of my men,” he said. . . . 

“ Shout ^ Long live the king ! ’ ” repeated Fleur-de-Lys. 
‘‘ Ho ? Well, then, fire ! ” 

Another explosion followed. Pelven heard the storm 
of bullets whistling around him, but he escaped unhurt. 
The flash, however, had revealed that the esplanade was 
vacant. 

“What means this?” exclaimed Fleur-de-Lys angrily. 
“ By all the saints I they are escaping ! ” 

“Yes, sir; and ‘Long live the Kepublic!’” said Pel- 
ven, waving his sword in the exaltation of danger and 
triumph ; and he rushed down the path that had safely 
carried all his companions. Before he had reached the 
base of the clift', numerous shots were fired over his head, 
and fraerments of stone fell in a shower around him ; but 
he fell safe and sound on the beach by the water’s edge. 

A few moments later, a loud cheer rising from the 
opposite bank informed the chouam^ who were now occu- 
pying the summit of the cliff, that Major Herve was in 
safety in the midst of his men. 

Before Pelven had even set foot on the shore, Francis 
had grasped his hand with effusion. After waiting for a 


344 


BELLAS. 


few moments in order to make sure that the Whites, 
frightened at the difficulty of the passage, liad given up 
the pursuit, the little republican troop started at a rapid 
gait across the fields. 


BELLAH. 




XII. 

“ My Father: Eeally, Trim, I am mucli pleased with you. 

Doctor Slop : And I too.” — S terne. 

The republican army, after the forced marches that 
had brought it to Ploermel, remained there inactive and 
uneasy, with its arm uplifted over a solitude. Recon- 
noissances pushed in force in every direction had failed 
to discover the army of the Whites, or even to obtain 
reliable tidings of its whereabouts. But among the 
rumors prevailing through the city, that which the 
general had received with the greatest incredulity . 
affirmed that the royalist army had taken refuge in the 
vast forest of Xouee, which stretches five leagues north- 
west from Ploermel. It was difficult to imagine that a 
victorious army, having control of the whole country, 
sliould have deliberately retreated into the depths of a 
forest, retaining, of all its conquests, only the most indif- 
ferent if not the most dangerous position. Yielding, how- 
ever, to the public voice, the general resolved to recon- 
noitre in person, with a strong'detachment, the approaches 
of the suspicious forest. What he saw and heard left 
him no doubt as to the enemy’s presence. 

He returned to his liead-quarters more anxious than 
ever ; for the object of such an incredible manoeuvre 
escaped all his conjectures. A few spies who had ven- 
tured into the mysterious forest had not returned. 

Four days elapsed in the midst of tliis indecision ; the 
15 * 


346 


BELLAH. 


republican army had its lines extended over a space of 
three leagues, from Ploermel to the river we have already 
several times referred to, and to the little town that 
guarded its passage. For the better understanding of 
the facts which are about to follow and bring this narra- 
tive to a close, we beg the reader to fix well in his mind 
the relative position of the three points upon which we 
will endeavor to draw his interest : Ploermel to the east, 
Kergant to the west form the two sides of a triangle of 
which the Forest of Kouee towards the north marks the 
apex. 

On the evening of the 22d of June, two personages of 
the most pitiful aspect were slowly wending their way 
towards the southern extremity of the forest : one was a 
beggar attired in nameless rags and walking with no little 
difficulty, owing to an injury to his knee, and to the fur- 
ther fact that he was blind. The other was a girl whose 
height might have seemed unusual for a woman, had not 
its proportions been marred by fatigue and perhaps also 
by poverty. 

The sun was already declining on the horizon, when 
the wretched couple stopped at the entrance of a path 
that disappeared through the forest. The heat was over- 
powering; not a breath of air stirred the leaves; at inter- 
vals, dull and prolonged roars rolled through the atmos- 
phere, and swarms of crows fiew from tree to tree, 
utterring screams of alarm. 

“I have been something of a sailor once, my pretty 
girl,” said the ragged old man, “ and I can tell you that 
we shall have a nice squall to-night.” 

The “pretty girl,” who really was about the least 
attractive person of her sex, made no reply, but seemed 


BELLAS. 


347 


a prey to painful anxiety. The old beggar, drawing 
his companion by her cape, made her sit by him on the 
grass, and spoke to her for some minutes, apparently 
favoring her with his paternal instructions. After this 
conference, the worthy man rose resolutely, and entered 
the timber, leaning on the arm of his guide. 

They had not walked a hundred steps, when suddenly 
three men, dropping from the adjacent trees like ripe 
fruit, stood in the way ; at the same time, ten or twelve 
individuals armed with guns came out of the thicket 
and surrounded the adventurous couple. 

Who are you ? where are you going ? ” said the one 
who seemed to be the liead of the ambuscade. 

“ Eh ! daughter,” said the blind man, there are no 
Blues here, are there?” 

“ No, father,” replied the girl in a tremulous and 
wheezy voice, ‘^they are all good ones; you can talk; 
can’t he, gentlemen ? ” 

“ Let him talk,” said the chouan, “We’ll listen.” 

“ Let me first touch your clothes,” said the old man, 
passing his hand over the cho nan’s breast, “ for my poor 
eyes have long been out of this world. A heart and a 
cross,” he added, “ that’s good. . . . Long live the 
King, my boys ! Wliere is Fleur-de-Lys, — may St. Yves 
and all the saints protect him ! — where is he ? I must 
speak to him.” 

“ Fleur-de-Lys has no time to waste, my old man.” 

“ And he will waste none with me, my good fellow, 
I warrant you. Take me to him ; I have something for 
him, something that has passed under the very nose of 
the Blues.” 

The old man began laughing, and, thrusting his hand 


348 


BELLAK 


among his rags, he took out a carefully sealed package 
of letters : the envelope was stamped on one of the cor- 
ners with a peculiar sign in the shape of a cross and 
fleur-de-lys. The chief of the cJiouan squad hesitated 
no longer ; he told the two adventurers to follow him, 
and started through the mazes of the forest. 

After a march of half an hour, during which they 
were frequently stopped by posts with whom they had to 
exchange the countersign and were compelled to climb 
over more than one barricade of trees and branches, 
the guide informed the old beggar that they were about 
reaching the end of their laborious journey; at the 
same moment, he left the depths of the thicket where it 
was not prudent, he said, to walk another step, and he 
entered a sort of corridor some six or seven feet wide 
over which twisted and interlacjed branches formed a 
sort of ceiling: under this continuous vault the feeble 
rays of the twilight could scarcely penetrate ; the deep 
silence that prevailed in this part of the forest rendered 
more striking still the impression of tJiis sudden dark- 
ness. The blind man felt his companion’s hand shiver- 
ing in his. 

“ What is it ? ” he said in a whisper, while the guide 
walked some few steps ahead. “ What moral effect are 
you experiencing about this time? ” 

Sergeant ! ” replied the girl in the same tone, “ my 
mind is disturbed, and at times I feel weak.” 

That is a bad moral effect ! ” rejoined the old man ; 
“ come,, my boy, be a man and. . . . Here ! what the 
deuce is this machine ? A cannon, ’pon my word ! In- 
fernal forest ! I never saw such a perfect old curiosity- 


BELLAS. 


349 


The old beggar muttered the rest in an inaudible 
voice. The guide had stopped ; he was questioning in a 
distinct tone two sentries posted at the extremity of the 
strange avenue; the last gleams of the twilight enabled 
them to distinguisli, in a large circular space, a number 
of huts and tents symmetrically arranged. Several 
covered pathways similar to the one they had just fol- 
lowed gave access to the clearing, which was otherwise 
enclosed on all sides by an inextricable growth of tim- 
ber. 

The guide and his two companions pentrated within 
the clearing, and stopped in front of a hut, around which 
a strong guaM was posted. The guide entered alone, 
but in a few minutes he returned for the old blind man 
and his daughter, and brought them into the presence of 
Fleur-de-Lys. 

The young leader, standing behind a table, was talking 
to George; two men in clerical garb were writing at a 
corner of the table; a few officers were scattered in 
small groups over the space extending from the table to 
the door. All conversation ceased on the appearance of 
the beggar : his daugliter led him face to face to the 
chief and then drew a few steps aside, making several 
awkward curtseys. The old man, with his package of 
letters in his hand and his body bent forward in an 
attitude of respectful humility, seemed to wait until he 
should be spoken to ; Fleur-de-Lys turned the light of a 
lamp upon the mysterious messenger, and after scrutiniz- 
ing him minutely from head to foot : 

Where do you come from,’’ he said, and who sent 
you ?” 

“ I came from Normandy, general. M. de Frotte sent 


350 


BELLAH. 


me in a carriage as far as Fougeres ; I passed through the 
enemy’s lines to bring you this package.” 

“ Ah ! yon are a Norman ? ” said Flenr-de-Lys. And 
he addressed him rapidly two or three questions in Nor- 
man patois, which the old beggar answered promptly in 
the same language. Satisfied on that point, Fleur-de-Lys 
opened the dispatch. After glancing over the letters it 
contained, he picked up the envelope he had thrown on 
the ground, and examined attentively the broken seal ; 
after which he fastened for a moment his sparkling eyes 
on the blind beggar with an expression of anxiety ; but 
the calm and venerable countenance of the worthy man 
seemed to dissipate at once the cloud that had darkened 
the young chief’s countenance. He sat down at the 
table : 

“ You’ll be compelled to start again this very night, 
my poor old man ; but I’ll see that you are amply paid 
for your trouble. At the inn of the Poinmier Fleuri^ 
half a league from Plelan, you’ll find one of M. de 
Frotte’s agents, who will spare you the remainder of the 
journey. If you love the King, allow yourself to be cut 
to pieces before surrendering the note I am going to 
give you.” 

While uttering these words, Fleur-de-Lys had been 
writing a few hasty lines. The letter being duly folded 
and sealed, he handed it to the old man across the table, 
without saying a word. The latter held out his hand to 
take it. 

“ Ah ! ah ! my friend, you are not blind then ! ” ex- 
claimed Fleur-de-Lys, drawing back his hand quickly. 

Hola ! the King’s boys, treason ! Arrest the spy and 
his daughter.” 


BELLAU. 


351 


At the sound of Fleur-de-Lys’ voice, half a dozen 
soldiers rushed into the hut ; but the officers had already 
mastered the sham blind man and the girl, after a brief 
resistance, which George’s powerful arm had soon brought 
to a close. The beggar’s wooden leg, his gray beard, and 
his daughter’s red hair had fallen oft' during the struggle. 

‘^Your name, comrade ? ” then said Fleur-de-Lys, ad- 
dressing the elder of the two prisoners. 

Bruidoux, Sergeant of Grenadiers, Battalion of the 
FearlessP 

“You know the laws of war, and you are aware what 
fate awaits you. Have you anything to say ? ” 

“ For myself, nothing ; for this boy, I have to say that 
I persuaded him against his own wishes into this expedi- 
tion, and that if you let him oft’ with his life it would be 
an easier matter for me to die myself, in my own person. 
That’s all.” 

“ Impossible, comrade. Nevertheless, we may still 
come to an understanding : will you enlist in the King’s 
service % ” 

“Why not in the Pope’s service?” said Bruidoux 
gravely. 

“ And you, young man ? ” said Fleur-de-Lys, turning 
to the other prisoner. 

This question was followed by an interval of silence, 
during which Bruidoux’s face became gradually con- 
tracted until it assumed an expression of unspeakable 
anguish. 

“ The sergeant is my superior, sir,” the young captive 
murmured at last in a feeble voice ; “ he has spoken for 
both of us.” 

At these words the old sergeant’s features gave way to 


352 


BELLAS, 


a sudden emotion ; liis eyes rolled in their orbits, and a 
tear trickled down his bronzed cheek. 

It’s a pity,” rejoined Fleur-de-Lys, “ for we like brave 
hearts. Remember, I do not ask you to betray your 
country. We serve France as you do, and better than 
you do. Come, I give you an hour more to reflect, for I 
should be sorry to lose you. Benedicite,” added the 
young chief, turning to one of the soldiers, “ take them 
to the vacant hut at the end of the camp ; let them be 
securely bound, and keep close guard over them. If they 
have not changed their minds in an hour, have them shot. 
It is unnecessary to come to me for further orders on this 
subject. Besides, I shall no longer be in the camp at that 
time.” 

Benedicite, a grim-looking old ohoiian, led the prison- 
ers to a small hut somewhat isolated from the rest, situ- 
ated at the extremity of the camp, and built against the 
trunk of a gigantic oak. This shanty had no windows, 
the disjointed boards of a rude door being sufficient for 
the purpose of ventilation. There the two republicans 
were left lying on their backs in the centre of the hut, 
their arms and legs bound with stout cords. Benedicite 
returned in a few moments, and setting down a small 
lamp in a corner : 

“ This is your time-piece,” he said. ‘‘ When you see it 
on the point of going out, your hour will be over.” And 
he went out after this warning. 

“ Here is, my boy,” said Bruidoux, “ here is an adven- 
ture which is not exactly rose-colored. Besides, that ras- 
cal has driven the cords into my flesh. I did not com- 
plain, it being incompatible with my dignity as a citizen ; 


BELLAS. 


353 


but I am afraid you have been treated no better, my poor 
Colibri.” 

“No, sergeant,” replied Colibri; “but wbat does it 
matter now ? ” 

“ I understand wbat you mean,” replied Bruidoux in a 
voice that seemed altered. “Hem! hem! I must be 
catching cold here. . . . But here is the fact, Colibri : 
I feel a moral effect that is choking me clandestinely, 
and all on your account ; for it was I — yes, it was I — 
who brought you into this infernal den. Upon my word, 
Colibri, I thought I was doing the very best thing in 
your own interest. . . . And now I want you to tell me, 
my boy, whether you . . . well, yes, I must say it . . . 
whether you forgive me, yes or no 1 ” 

“ I do forgive you with all my heart, sergeant,” replied 
Colibri ; “ I knew you meant it for my good, though we 
have not succeeded.” 

“ You are a brave fellow,” said Bruidoux, whose voice 
became quite husky ; “ and since you sent the ci-devant 
prince to grass, you may boast of possessing my esteem, 
though I don’t very well see of what use it can be to you 
hereafter.” 

“ And so, sergeant,” said Colibri, “ you think there is 
no more hope ? ” 

“ Hem ! my boy, I beg your pardon ; there is always 
hope as long as our body is not reduced to dust. But as 
to say that our position is a brilliant one — no, no. It is 
certain that the enemy has obtained a considerable advan- 
tage over us — an advantage that seems decisive — for I 
should not like to deceive you in a moment like this.” 

A flash of lightning suddenly shone through the cracks 
of the door, and a solemn roll, sounding a moment after, 


854 


BELLAS, 


announced that tlie storm which had been brewing all 
eveniuff was about to burst over the forest. Almost at 

o 

the same instant the door creaked on its rusty hinges, and 
the prisoners knew that they were no longer alone ; but 
owing to the painful attitude in which they were main- 
tained by their fetters, they were unable to see who had 
come to interrupt them in that supreme hour. 

“ The lamp is not out,” said Bruidoux dryly, It is 
not right to cheat an enemy in adversity.” 

“ E'ot so loud, Mister Sergeant,” said a manly but sup- 
pressed voice. 

I know that voice,” murmured the sergeant. Who 
are you, my friend % ” 

‘‘Kado.” 

Ah ! the father of the little citizen with the top. 
Have you come to save us, old fellow ? ” 

“ Don’t speak so loud, I tell you : the door is wide open, 
and the sentry is passing before it every minute.” 

At that very moment the soldier on guard stopped in 
front of the door. 

“ The prisoners,” said Kado, “ wish me to help them 
change position.” 

Do so,” said the soldier ; and he resumed his walk. 

Kado got on his knees and leaned towards the captives, 
drawing from his sleeve a knife whose keen blade 
gleamed under the rays of the lamp ; in two strokes he 
severed the cord that bound the sergeant’s wrists and 
ankles. “ On your life,” lie said, “ don’t stir ! ” Going 
next to Colibri, he freed him from his fetters with the 
same dexterity and the same promptitude. That opera- 
tion over, the gamekeeper got up and stood in front of 
the prisoners ; then he began speaking to them — now 


BELL AH. 


365 


with grave deliberation, and again hurriedly — modifying 
the tone of his voice and the meaning of his speech ac- 
cording that the sound of the sentry’s footsteps seemed 
nearer or farther from the door. 

“ You have barely half an hour, now. — The King is a 
kind master. — You must not think of leaving the camp 
through three lines of sentries ; besides, you’d inevitably 
fall into the hands of some of the outposts in the forest. 
— ^You’ll have good fellows to serve with. — Here is your 
only means of salvation : in ten minutes the storm will be 
at its height ; and when the noises from above fill the 
woods, rise. — Yes, Fleur-de-Lys promises to each of you 
an officer’s commission. — I leave you my knife, here, 
under tlie straw ; use it to cut through the straw over 
your head, at the spot where the trunk of the oak passes 
through the roof ; then climb through the opening. — The 
King’s cause is the cause of God : it must triumph. — The 
branches of the oak extend over to the adjoining thicket; 
the thicket is full of traps : you’d surely perish there. — 
There is no shame returning into the honest path. — But 
the lowest and strongest limb forms part of the network 
that covers the nearest pathway ; follow that branch as 
far as the vault, and then crawl over the trellis as best 
you can. — I am sorry ; it is a sad ending for brave, men. 
— When you reach the end of the vault, get down ; you’ll 
find the little fellow you saved from being shot. — Fare- 
well, then, if you will have it so.” 

‘‘What have they decided?” inquired the sentry, 
entering the hut. 

“To die,” replied Kado. “Let us leave them alone. 
Good-night, comrade.” 


856 


BELLAS. 


Here is the rain,”, re joined the soldier. I am going 
to stay under shelter here until the hour is up.” 

As you please,” said Kado ; still, if you were in 
their position, you wouldn’t like to have any one prevent 
you from conversing at your ease with a friend.” 

Tlie soldier yielded reluctantly to this objection and 
went out with the game-keeper. As soon as the door had 
closed behind them Bruidoux heaved a deep sigh, which 
Colibri repeated like a faithful echo. 

“ Well, my boy,” said the old sergeant, “ this is a most 
fortuitous occurrence. What do you think of it 'i ” 

“ Extremely fortuitous, sergeant.” 

“ There is a beautiful maxim, Colibri, which says that 
there is no small bush but casts a shade. Who could 
ever have ventured to believe that this boy with the top 
would take me one day under his protecting shade — me 
— Bruidoux? No one — not even you, Colibri, though I 
am pleased to acknowledge in you henceforth every qual- 
ity of the heart and the mind.” 

“ But, sergeant,” inquired Colibri, did you under- 
stand a single word of the citizen chouan’s complicated 
system ? ” 

I understood it from top to bottom, my child, and I 
am going to devote the tedious minutes which the be- 
numbed condition of our muscles compels us to spend on 
these premises, to make it equally clear to you.” 

While Sergeant Bruidoux was calmly explaining to his 
subaltern the plan of escape suggested to their coolness 
and their audacity, the flashes of lightning became more 
frequent and more dazzling ; the intensity of the storm 
was gradually reaching its height. Soon the deep and 
distant murmur of the tempest changed into a wild con- 


BELLAE. 


357 


cert of deafening roars and shrill howls, to which was 
mingled the pattering of a torrential rain ; the door of 
the hut shook and moaned under the shock of the gusts 
of wind, and the water penetrated in streams over the 
threshold. Suddenly, a clap of thunder louder than the 
rest rent the air and seemed to burst ’ the last shackles 
that confined the elements ; a furious blast caused the 
huge oak that formed one side of the hut to rock and 
shiver to its very roots. 

Now is the time, boy,” said Bruidoux, rising reso- 
lutely. 

He grasped at once the game-keeper’s knife, and with 
the help of the keen blade soon cut an opening in the 
roof next to the trunk of the tree ; the wind rushing 
through this fresh outlet blew out the lamp. 

“ Courage, boy,” said Bruidoux ; I will not forsake 
you.” 

At the same time, he raised himself to the top of the 
roof, and grasping the oak with one arm, he held out the 
other to his companion to assist him in his escalade. 

“ Here is the tree,” said Bruidoux in a whisper ; “ but 
I don’t see the branch; do you ?” 

Colibri made no reply. Bewildered by the darkness, 
blinded by the hurricane, panting with anxiety, they both 
felt in yain with their trembling hands the gnarled bark 
of the oak. 

‘‘ Ten thousand millions ! ” the sergeant went on ; there 
is no more branch than in my eye, and the extinguished 
lamp is going to betray us ! ” 

As he spoke, a double fiash furrowed the gloomy depths 
of the sky, and revealed to the fugitives the limb they 
were looking for; it started from the trunk some two 


358 


BELLAH. 


or three feet below, and stretched horizontally through 
space. 

“ Follow me,” said Bruidoux ; “ hang on to my rags 
and stride the branch until we reach the end.” 

The limb bent under their weight ; but sustained at its 
farther extremity by the network of the vault, it did not 
give way. They had scarce begun their aerial journey 
when the cry To arms ! to arms ! ” sounded behind them. 
“ Steady, boy, keep up your moral ! ” murmured Bruidoux. 

A few seconds later the two fugitives had reached 
the top of the covered way, and they were crawl- 
ing on their knees over this roof of verdure, when the 
sound of voices and hurried steps apparently coming in 
their direction stopped them motionless and dumb; a 
squad of armed men, running and brandishing torches, 
passed under their feet. As soon as the light of the torches • 
had disappeared, they renewed their journey with silent 
haste. Suddenly a hoarse groan escaped from Colibri’s 
lips. The' sergeant looked around: 

“ What is it, child ? ” he asked. 

My foot has slipped through the branches, sergeant, 
and I can’t pull it up again.” 

“ Is that all? Pull hard, and no child’s play now.” 

“ Impossible, sergeant, I cannot follow you ; but go on 
alone, I will not ...” 

“ Don’t insult your superior. I’ll help you ; wait.” 

All is lost, sergeant,” rejoined Colibri, putting his lips 
close to the sergeant’s ear and speaking in a scarcely au- 
dible voice. “ Some one is holding my leg.” 

Bruidoux grasped the young man’s hand without re- 
plying. A mortal minute elapsed; then a gentle and 
frail voice murmured from below : 


BELLA TL 


359 


Is that yon, Monsieur le Sergent ? ” 

“ Vive le bon Dieu ! it’s the little boy,” exclaimed 
Bruidoux, drawing a long breath. ‘‘Yes, we are here, 
my love. All well at home? Wait only a couple of 
rapid moments and we are with you.” 

While talking, the old sergeant had succeeded in extri- 
cating Colibri’s leg ; he jumped into the thicket, passed 
into the road, and clasped the game-keeper’s son to his 
heart. 

The little boy, guiding the fugitives through the thickest 
bushes, led them without accident to the outer edge of 
the forest. Bruidoux parted from him only after kissing 
him again and promising to return him liis top at the first 
opportunity. 


360 


BELLAE. 


XIII. 

“ Sa presence en ces lieux in’est toujours redoutable. 

II est puissant, il m’aime, et vient pour m’epouser.” 

Corneille. 

At the moment when the two republican captives were 
effecting their escape with such good luck, a young officer 
of the Catholic and Hoyal army was crossing the forest 
alone, in the direction of the west ; he walked with rapid 
strides, indifferent to the roar of the tempest, and shaking 
from time to time, with an absent air, the water from his 
cloak. 

The sentmels he met at frequent intervals hastened, 
after the exchange of a few w^ords, to give him the mili- 
tary salute, and having been recognized by the vacillating 
light of a camp-fire as he was passing a considerable post, 
he was at once surrounded by a respectful throng that 
mingled their enthusiastic shouts of welcome to Fleur-de- 
Lys to the thousand noises of the storm. Several similar 
ovations stopped more than once the royalist general dur- 
ing his progress through the forest. 

We must now partly tear the veil from that young head 
which enjoyed popularity approaching adoration. This 
personage had first appeared in Yendee at the end of the 
great wars. Extraordinary fortune favored his arms, and 
not a single combat could be named in which it had be- 
trayed him. But his very success and popularity had not 
been long in exciting uneasiness and apprehension among 


BELLAH. 


361 


the exiled princes. He was soon made to feel his de- 
pendent position, and otherwise embarrassed in his move- 
ments. It was at this time that peace negotiations with 
the Hepublic were opened. The lucky adventurer re- 
fused to participate in them, and sailed from Brittany in 
a fisherman’s boat. Before leaving the shore, he broke a 
golden fleur-de-lys that surmounted the handle of his 
sword, and gave it to tlie faithful friends who were assist- 
ing at his departure. This relic soon became in the pop- 
ular legend the name of the missing hero. 

When a few weeks later hostilities were about to be re- 
sumed and the British cabinet had decided to land, on the 
coast of Brittany, a division of emigrants commanded by 
one of the brothers of the late king, it was felt that Fleur- 
de-Lys alone w^as capable of preparing the success of this 
movement by gathering the scattered fragments of the old 
chouan bands and sweeping from the coast the republi- 
can detachments. He accepted the task. In one brief 
campaign, he accomplished, as we have seen, the object 
of his mission ; but the English fieet failed to appear at 
the stated time. Fresh instructions were forwarded to 
Fleur-de-Lys, to which he complied by modifying his 
plans and withdrawing from the vicinity of the coast. 

Nevertheless, this delay, which was not without some 
semblance of treason, had deeply wounded the young 
general’s impetuous soul ; he felt himself half sacrificed 
as a reward for his devotion. Some indiscretions of lan- 
guage that escaped him in a moment of anger aroused 
distrust around him. A few of the chiefs remained sin- 
cerely attached to him, while others felt secretly alarmed 
at his growing ascendency, fearing lest it might lead 
to some ambitious project of' personal advancement 
16 


362 


BELLAE. 


We shall soon see how far these apprehensions were 
founded. 

Fleur-de-Lys, on. reaching the edge of the wood, found 
a strong party of cavalry camping there, took a horse, and 
started at a gallop towards the Chateau de Kergant. The 
marquis and his party had found shelter in the forest of 
Nouee during the day which followed the surprise of the 
chateau by Francis. They heard the same day that the 
republicans had occupied, but almost immediately evac- 
uated, Kergant, falling back upon the main army. The 
marquis, wishing to spare to his family until the last mo- 
ment the fatigues of a proscribed existence, had resolved 
to return with them to his hereditary manor. Fleur-de- 
Lys undertook to keep up a surveillance that would here- 
after make all surprise impossible. The secret plan of 
the chouans was, moreover, of a nature to bring this pre- 
carious situation to a speedy termination. 

All the habits of family life had been resumed at 
the chateau. Nevertheless, cruel preoccupations were re- 
vealed in the words, and still more in the silence of each. 
Bellah had fallen into an alarming state of languor; An- 
dree herself only smiled in her dreams now. On the 
evening to which the course of our narrative has now 
brought us, the various members of the family had parted 
as usual at about ten o’clock. 

Bellah, after retiring to her room, had remained stand- 
ing, with one hand laid on the back of a chair, her neck 
bent forward, gazing on the vacancy ; she seemed to listen 
with melancholy interest to the sounds of the storm out- 
side, and the gloomy echoes with which it filled the corri- 
dors of the old chateau. The girl’s handsome features 
were deeply altered, but her very pallor and the dark 


BELLAH. 


363 


furrow under her eyes did but restore to her the only 
charm of her sex in whicli she was wanting : the charm 
of weakness. 

Starting at last from her listless attitude, she came to 
sit in front of a small table that formed the base to an 
elegant bookcase of carved ebon 3 ^ She took from a 
shelf a thick book handsomely bound in velvet and fas- 
tened with a cross-shaped clasp ; but she pushed it back 
slowly without having opened it ; then, shaking her head 
with a painful expression, like one who cannot resist a 
desire of which he disapproves, she tore a leaf from an 
album, and began writing with feverish rapidity. This is 
what she wrote : 

Ilerve, my brother, I never expect to see yon again. 
Your scorn, — undeserved though it be, as God knows, — is 
nevertheless killing me. Already you would find it dif- 
ficult to know me. They think around me that it is 
fatigue, excitement ; I let them believe it, but in fact I 
am dying. I feel as though my heart were broken. My 
mind is also in a state of confusion. This evening’s 
storm completely upsets me. It seems to me that each 
gust of wind is passing through me, and tearing away a 
little of the life I have left. Should I be mistaken, should 
I live, you would never read these lines. And so, enough 
on this subject. 

“ Ilerve, I hkve been during my whole life a slave to 
duty, and in obedience to it I have voluntarily cast dis- 
grace upon myself ; but I mean that m.y grave at least 
shall be pure to the eyes of all, and above all to yours. 
When I am no longer alive, it can hurt no one that you 
should weep over me, my friend ; and the thought is so 
pleasant to me in my present condition 1 There cannot 


364 


BELLAH. 


be much harm in the weakness that prompts me to write 
to you, for ray conscience hardly objects, and yet it is still 
my same poor conscience of other days, — ^you remember 
Ilerve, — my sensitive’s conscience, as you used to say. . . . 
Where are those days, raon Dieu ! 

“ When my own lips were acknowledging my shame, 
you doubtless believed me, you must have done so. But 
what 1 so readily, Ilerve ? In that very dwelling so long 
common to both of us, where my soul had been revealed 
to you fold by fold, one word has been enough to obliter- 
ate so many recollections that should have defended me ! 
Ah ! it seems to me that on the day of eternal justice and 
inexorable truth, if I were to hear an admission of infamy 
or baseness escaping from your lips, I sliould wait, before 
I believed it, until God’s own voice had repeated it to my 
ear! And you did not doubt, you did not hesitate! 
Does one word, a word of slander, outweigli so easily in 
your hasty judgment the testimony of a woman’s entire 
existence ? For I spoke falsely, since I am compelled to 
tell you so. I have no excuse to offer for this falsehood, 
Ilerve : the errors which duty command are raised to the 
level of virtues. 

“ I must explain all, since you mo longer know me. I 
have remained faithful, passionately faithful to the senti- 
ments and the ideas with wliich our childhood has been 
nurtured. I believe in the King as I believe in God. 
This double faith alone sustains my conscience ; outside 
of it, I see nothing but darkness and difficulties among 
which I could not live. Indifference is a word of which 
I cannot apprehend the meaning. An ardent faith, 
Ilerve, in times like these, imposes duties which I confess 
are greatly beyond a woman’s strength. 


BELLAH. 


865 


“ It rested with me to prevent the catastrophe I felt 
impending between this young man and yourself. I was 
bound to do so at any cost. There is no existence that 
should be more highly prized than that young man’s exist- 
ence, by all who love the King. The King! Herve, 
that is a name which you have ceased to understand as 
we do, and you will scarcely understand now how it may 
explain every sacrifice. 

“ I was so far from being guilty, Herve, that I was un- 
able at first to understand what you referred to. It is 
strange that you were willing to believe me so easily I I 
wished to save that young man’s life : it was my duty ; 
but I must not, while j ustifying myself, allow your suspi- 
cions to rest upon another. Alix, whom you know, has 
since spontaneously revealed to me something which has 
explained your error to me. She came to ask me to 
speak to my father in favor of one of our young officers 
she expects to marry : he is the son of M. de Monryon’s 
game-keeper. She confessed to me having met him in 
the spruce-wood during that fatal evening, and dreaded 
much to have been surprised by her father. The man 
she loves has a nom-de-guerre which may have contributed 
to deceive you so singularly ; he calls himself Fleur-de- 
GenH. 

“ This, it seems to me, is all I had to tell you, and I 
now feel more at ease. If you ever read these words, my 
dear friend, it will be because I have ceased to live. It 
is a thought that removes many scruples from my mind. 
If I am anxious that my memory shall remain dear to 
you, Herve, it is because I deserve it, rest assured of that. 
... I have struggled long on your account. God has 
made us masters of our acts and our words, but not of the 


366 


BELLAH. 


promptings of our hearts. Did you really believe me guilty % 
I had certainly decided to remain a stranger to you, and 
since our interview on the Rocky Moor you were right to 
think that I was, and could no longer be anything to you 
but a recollection of the past ; but to turn my soul to- 
wards another, to profane tlie tomb forever sealed at the 
bottom of my heart, to lay my widowed hand in another 
man’s hand ! O God ! . . . ” 

As Bellah wrote that word, looking up to Heaven to 
call it to witness, the door of the room opened, and Fleur- 
de-Lys walked in. Mademoiselle de Kergant rose with a 
shudder. The young man had stopped near the door in 
a respectful attitude. 

“ Monsieur le Due,” she said, with somewhat haughty 
gravity, “ my father is still in the parlor, I believe.” 

“ Pray excuse me, mademoiselle,” said Fleur-de-Lys ; 
“ it is to you alone that I wish to speak. You may well 
think that no ordinary matter could have prompted me to 
a step that seems to offend you. I am o;i the eve of a su- 
preme resolution, and I must consult you without delay.” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant looked anxiously at Fleur-de- 
Lys’ countenance ; she was unable to read there anything 
but a vague expression of violent perplexity. Falling 
back upon her seat in a state of extreme agitation : 

What is the matter, sir ? ” she said. 

Fleur-de-Lys meditated for a moment before replying ; 
then drawing nearer to the attentive girl : 

“ You do me justice, at least,” he said; “ I am sure that 
you do. You know whether I have given myself wholly 
to the perilous d’'^v which had been assigned to me.” 

“ I know,” interrupted Bellah, “ that you have been 
'vorthy of your bh od, Monsieur le Due.” 


BELLAS. 


367 


The patience, the abnegation of a man have their 
limits, however,” rejoined the young man. “ Woe to those 
who forget it, to those who cause devotion to hesitate in 
the most faithful souls ! ” 

“ Those are strange words ! What are you contemplat- 
ing? monDieu!” 

If I have not yet learned treason, Bellah, it is not for 
lack of lessons. You already know, at least in part, what 
has taken place; but nothing must remain obscure to 
your eyes. I had been commissioned to disperse or destroy 
everything that might prove an obstacle to the long-prom- 
ised landing of troops. Within a few days after my ar- 
rival, I had accomplished my task; the sea-shore, the 
whole country were free, we had full control of the coast, 
we were ready to join hands with our friends and our 
allies ; but they came not, and left us face to face with 
one of tho most formidable armies, with the best general 
of the Republic . . . ” 

But you had.been warned . . . new orders had been 
forwarded you.” 

Yes, three days later. How can I tell you mj’- anxi- 
ety during these long hours of uncertainty and neglect— 
my anxiety, not for myself, but for so maii}^ brave fellows 
who had trusted my word and whom I had led to a need- 
less butchery. The orders came at last : I was requested 
to occupy the enemy during another week, or to defeat 
him. Such orders are easy to give ; easy enough to under- 
stand, too. Whatever the result, they were rid of an 
enemy ... or else of a servant more odious still. . . . 
I obeyed, however, Bellah ” 

“ God and your honor demanded it,” said the girl with 
dignity. 


368 


BELLAH. 


“ That is not quite so certain to me,” rejoined Fleur- 
de-Lys. “ To sacrifice so many generous hearts (I am 
speaking of my soldiers) for a selfish cause, really I know 
not whether religion and honor commanded it ! And 
yet I obeyed ... I prepared to die. I threw myself into 
that forest, expecting to fight there a desperate battle 
which would doubtless have proved our destruction. But 
the attack did not take place, and this is how matters now 
stand : the English flotilla is to land day after to-moi*- 
row on the peninsula of Quiberon. If the republicans 
are warned they will at once march to the coast. I 
can follow them and force a battle ; but if they still re- 
main in ignorance, as I hope, I can try to outflaiik them 
to-night, and reach before them the place of landing.” 

The hour is indeed critical,” said Bellah in a troubled 
voice ; “ why not advise my father at once ? ” 

A slight cloud passed over Fleur-de-Lys’ bright coun- 
tenance. 

“ Because,” he said in a singular tone, “ because I know 
not as yet whether, instead of adopting one or the other 
of these two plans, I may not at this very night leave the 
forest and retreat towards the north with all my chouansP 

Mademoiselle de Kergant could not fail to see that 
such a manoeuvre ruined at a blow the most cherished 
hopes of the. royalists, for it removed all assistance from 
the expedition of the emigrants, and left them an easy 
prey to the republican army. Bellah’s mind refused to 
see this frightful light. 

“ I beg your pardon. Monsieur Le Due,” she murmured ; 
“ I am giving you all my attention, but certainly I can- 
not have understood you.” 

“You have understood me.” 


BELLAB. 


360 


Bellah rose slowly from her seat, looking at the young 
man with an air of profound stupor. 

“ It is not possible,” she murmured, “ that you would 
be guilty of treason, you ! That you would betray your 
fellow-soldiers, betray the prince . . . the kind’s 
brother ! ” 

“ The prince ! ” said Fleur-de-Lys, whose mouth curled 
up with a scornful smile. “ The prince is not coming ! ” 

“ ’Tis false ! ” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Kergant ; 
‘^who dare say such a thing? Who dares say that a 
Bourbon breaks his word and deserts his flag ? ” 

“ Himself ! ” replied the young man, laying an open 
letter on the table. It consisted of a single line. 

Bellah cast her eyes upon it, and a sudden blush suffused 
her countenance. 

“ England must have prevented him,” she murmured. 

“ Prevented I with a name like his ! If England re- 
fused him her ships, was there not a single fisherman’s 
bark left to save Caesar’s honor ? At any rate, he is not 
coming. As to the others, I have the means of warning 
them in time ; they shall not land. I betray no one, 
therefore, save England; and as to her, I am proud of 
doing so.” 

But,” rejoined Bellah with energetic enthusiasm, 
“ what matters one man ? what matters a fault, excusable, 
perhaps ? Is the crown less pure, the cause less sacred ? 
And you abandon it ! But what will you do ? What are 
your projects ? In whose behalf are you going to fight ? 
In whose name ? What tie will bind your soldiers ? 
Hot one of our brave Bretons will follow you.” 

“ They will all follow me ! ” said the young man forci- 
bly. “ Do you think that they have no interest in taking 
16 * 


870 


BELLAH. 


up arms but that of the King, of that King allied to the 
English, the Saxons as they say, their old enemies ; of 
that ever absent King, so lavish of their blood and so 
sparing of his own ? No, Bellah, they will be grateful to 
me for ridding them of a detested alliance . . . they will 
all follow me, in the name of their religion, of their lib- 
erty, of their country in danger. That is the cause they 
serve, the cause to which it is grand, it is holy to devote 
ourselves: the truly French cause ! Words are nothing. 
. . . Your mind is too lofty, Bellah, not to understand 
me.” 

^^All I understand,” said Mademoiselle de Kergant, 
fixing her stern gaze on the young chieftain’s ardent eye, 
“ is that you pretend to serve the revolution in ^mur own 
way, if not to your own profit. You are powerful, Fleur- 
de-Lys. Your success, your infiuence are such that I 
always thought God had selected you. But beware that 
He does not withdraw His strength from you the moment 
you withdraw your faith from Him.” 

“ Cannot God have reserved to me some other fate be- 
sides that of eternally serving ungrateful masters ? ” ex- 
claimed the young man. 

“ Your fatal power may lead into’ your fault, into your 
crime, simple minds like those of your soldiers, Fleur-de- 
Lys ; but do you hope to abuse our faithful nobility in the 
same manner?” 

“ A few, I am aware, infiuenced by narrow prejudices, 
will forsake me ; others, I have made sure of it, will 
march as readily in the name of France as in that of a 
King who teaches them forgetfulness. I am not the only 
one, Bellah, whose fealty has been shaken by this fresli 
disappointment. I might show you proofs if you wished 


BELLAH. 371 

it. I did not conceive such a design without some prob- 
ability of success, believe me.” 

“ What design, what success ? in the name of Heaven ! 
for indeed, this passes my comprehension and my rea- 
son.” 

“ I am called upon another theatre of danger and hon- 
or, Bellah ; the influence of my name, the help of our 
bands are invoked to kindle anew the great Yendean 
wars. Other pioneers are ready. Federalism is awaken- 
ing all over France, and is lifting its hand towards us. . . . 
Once rid of the King, all the enemies of the Kepublic 
will be with us. The time when our insurrection had a 
capital, wlien a single victory would have been enough to 
open the road to Paris, to smother at one blow that Re- 
public which was stronger then than it is now, — that time 
may come again. Countries are not like kings, jealous of 
those who serve them . . . the gratitude of the nation 
would certainly reward its liberators. Those are noble 
chances, and my soul is not base because it is attracted 
towards . them. Since we are compelled to rush into ad- 
ventures,' these at least are grand and wortliy of a man ! ” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant had listened with a species 
of terror to that language of a soul warped by inj astic;e, 
goaded on by ambition. 

“ I understand now,” she said ; “ pride blinds you, 
Fleur-de-Lys ; you are hastening on to your own ruin ; but 
what is horrible to think of, you are going to drag us all 
into the abyss at the same time; you will destroy our 
cause forever. And I see it, mon Dieu ! ” she added, 
wringing her hands in despair ; “ I am warned, and yet I 
can do nothing, nothing to avert it ! ” 

“ You can do everything, Bellah ! ” said Fleur-de-Lys in 


872 


BELLAH. 


a quick, low voice, laying his hand gently on the young 
lady’s arm. 

She looked at him without replying. 

“ Yes,” he rejoined, “ there is no task I would not joy- 
fully undertake, no bitterness, no injustice I would not 
bless, if I were your husband.” 

My husband ! ” exclaimed Bellah, drawing suddenly 
back as if an invisible gulf had yawned beneath her feet. 

‘‘ Since I have known you, Bellah, no glory, no fortune, 
has been of value to me, unless it drew me nearer to you. 
Your love would have compensated me for all else ; you 
refused it to me ; I felt my liead turning. To forget you, 
I must become a great man or a great criminal. The 
passions that consume my heart are terrible ; you could 
not understand them, you could not palliate them.” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant had crossed her hand over 
her bosom as if ready to lie down on her own tomb ; her 
pale lips opened slightly : 

“ The King ! ” she murmured gently. 

Suddenly an extraordinary expression of sufPering and 
of triumph spread over her features and cast a halo over 
them. She approached Fleur-de-Lys, held out her hand 
to him, and said with a smile of supernatural sweetness : 

“ If this feeble hand is to weigh so heavily in the scales 
of the highest destinies, I am proud to cast it unto them.” 

The young chieftain seemed confused and embarrassed 
at such a prompt answer and such an easy victory. 

“ Is it possible ! ” he murmured ; “ was I mistaken, 
then? You do not love liim. . . . you might love me? 
But duty alone has prompted your words. . . . You are 
sacrificing yourself ! ” 

“ Do I look as if I were sacrificing myself ? ” rejoined 


BELLAS. 


373 


Bellali with the same calm serenity. “ Do not believe it. 
My soul is perhaps not capable of the ardent feelings 
you might expect from another; but it is enough that I 
may be yours without self -compulsion. Time will do the 
rest.” 

“ Can I believe you, Bellah ? Such unexpected happi- 
ness ! Oh ! of what a burden you have relieved me ! of 
what mortal anguish ! How can I ever repay you ? ” 

“ Serve the King, Fleur-de-Lys ! ” 

“ I will serve him ; I’ll die for him ! and I’ll die full of 
gratitude if I die your husband ! It is cruel to impor- 
tune your father at this moment, Bellah ; pray forgive 
me ; I love you as you yourself love God. — Your prom- 
ise is sincere, tell me? You do not rely to release you 
from your engagement — this suspicion will offend you ? — 
you do not rely upon the imminent chances of a murder- 
ous war ? ” 

You may dispose of my hand as my father may agree, 
and at any moment you please.” 

“ What ! should your father consent, the priest who is 
to bless our arms to-morrow night before the departure, 
before the battle perhaps, might also bless our union ! 
May I hope so, Bellah ? ” 

“ The time is very short,” said Bellah, whose voice was 
growing gradually weaker ; but see my father ; I shall 
not gainsay what you may tell him. Go now, Fleur-de- 
Lys. I felt somewhat unwell this evening, and this has 
been quite a severe ordeal to me.” 

The young man bent his knee to the floor; he took 
Mademoiselle de Kergant’s hand and pressed his lips 
upon it; then after bowing low once more, he left the 
room. 


374 


BELLAS, 


As Fleur-de-Ljs reached the end of the corridor that 
traversed this part of the chateau, he looked around 
sharply, thinking that he heard the sound of footsteps be- 
hind him. 'No noise, however, came to strike his attentive 
ear; he concluded that the echo of his walk under the 
sonorous vault had been the cause of his illusion, and he 
turned into the stairway ; but his ear had not deceived 
him : he had been followed. A woman, an angry and re- 
vengeful shadow, emerged from the darkness and walked 
after him down the stairs that led into the vestibule of the 
chateau. While he entered the drawing-room to join the 
marquis, she made her way into the yard and soon disap- 
peared in the obscurity of the avenue. 

A few minutes had elapsed when a sharp and prolonged 
scream, that seemed to proceed from Bellah’s chamber, 
suddenly aroused Andree, whose room was divided from 
that of her adopted sister by a mere partition ; she ]*ose 
quickly and hastened to her. Bellah, cold as death, lay 
stretched on the floor. The room was soon filled with all 
the dwellers of the chateau. While Monsieur de ller- 
gant, with the help of the canoness, was trying to recall 
his daughter to life, Andree noticed on the table the letter 
which the arrival of Fleur-de-Lys had interrupted. She 
read a few lines, anxious to discover the cause of the sud- 
len calamity that had stricken her sister ; then she seized 
the letter and hid it in her bosom. 

During that same night, a young woman, mounted on a 
horse covered with foam, rode up to the republican out- 
posts and requested to be led in presence of the general- 
in-chief. Since the preceding day, the latter had moved 
his head-quarters into the little deserted town about three 
leagues from Kergant. As soon as he heard the first 


BELLAR. 


375 


words addressed to him by the young woman, the general 
sent for Major Pelven. After a conference of half an 
hour, the mysterious equestrian left by the same route 
over which she had come. 

Tlie earliest rays of the dawning day began to whiten 
the horizon, and Pelven was still closeted with the gen- 
eral-in-chief, when they brought him a sort of half idiotic 
peasant who had already more than once conveyed com- 
munications between himself and his sister. The peasant 
handed to Herve an envelope sealed with extreme care. 
It contained two lines from Andree and Pellah’s untiu- 
ished letter. 


376 


BELLAS, 


XIY. 

HEKMIONE. 

“ AUons, c’est a moi seule ^ me rendre justice, 

Que de cris de douleur le temple retentisse I ” — Racine. 

M. DE Keegant was one of those men, worthy of all 
respect, whose life moves by the simple action of natural 
sentiments : their healthy heart feeds not that turgid 
spring where passions ferment. They are called positive 
hearts. There is no darkness in their conscience : primi- 
tive good sense and eternal morality keeps up in it a pure 
light which no worldly breath can cause to vacillate. They 
are called narrow minds. Their private life is always 
irreproachable ; their political life, especially during those 
critical periods that change abruptly the aspects of the 
human mind, is subject to error, never to shame. In their 
social intercourse they are wholly free from mistrust and 
hypocrisy. Such characters are transparent as well as 
firm. They cannot deceive, but are themselves easily 
deceived. Fleur-de-Lys, by surrounding liis delicate com- 
munications with the usual artifices of his language, ex- 
perienced no difficulty in persuading the loyal old man to 
forgive him a step that might perhaps seem too bold ; be- 
sides, it was not quite unexpected. 

M. de Kergant worshipped his daughter ; but, as igno- 
rant as a child of the secret mechanism of the heart and 
of the complicated mysteries of passion, he had never 
suspected that the silent indifference with which Bellah 


BELLAH. 


377 


treated the conduct of her adopted brother might con- 
ceal an nnsnbdued and tender recollection. Other ap- 
pearances had further misled him. His paternal solici- 
tude had become alarmed, at first, on finding in the letters 
which his daughter wrote him from England the expres- 
sion of a romantic enthusiasm for the brilliant leader of 
the Breton chouans. He had twice seen the same feeling 
manifested with strange frankness in Bellah’s eyes, in 
presence of this young man. The latter was far from 
taking the same views of these ingenuous demonstrations; 
he appreciated better the true character of the charm he 
exercised over the mind of the pious royalist. He knew 
that the tender preferences of a woman are fonder of 
mystery, and that a maiden whose heart has been touched 
takes more care to draw a veil over her wounds ; but 
these delicate shades escaped M. de Kergant’s less flexi- 
ble intelligence, and he felt convinced tliat his daughter 
had allowed her whole soul to become wrapped up in the 
seductions of beauty, of courage, and of victory. 

In his deep affection for his only child, the marquis 
had endeavored to bend his mind to the idea of an alli- 
ance which he believed fraught with Bellah’s happiness. 
He succeeded without very much effort. He himself 
felt to a marked degree the young chief’s ascendency. 
He had always defended him with energy against the re- 
proaches and the suspicions of his rivals, and had thus 
been gradually led by his innocent pride into giving him 
an almost filial place in his heart. If it were a sacrifice, 
in the old gentleman’s mind, to sink in that ephemeral 
glory the name of his ancient family, this very sacrifice 
had something in it that was gratifying to his ideas of 
devotion. He saw in it a fresh pledge given to a sacred 


BELLAS. 


878 

cause, a tie that was to silence all fatal mistrust and draw 
the ranks of the nobility closer still around the popular 
hero. 

Such were M. de Kergant’s secret reflections. The 
request which Fleur-de-Lys came to make him, with 
Bellah’s consent, was therefore kindly, almost joyfully, re- 
ceived : it removed doubts which weighed upon him ; it 
afforded him a plausible explanation of the sufferings 
under which his daughter had visibly labored for the 
past few days ; and at the same time it indicated the 
remedy. The nervous flt into which Bellah had been 
suddenly thrown only confirmed the marquis in his ideas 
and overcame his last scruples. Left alone at the bed- 
side of the patient, he mistook the silence of despair for 
a confession of modesty ; and for the emotion of happy 
love, the bitter tears which his cruel consolations forced 
from his daughter’s eyes. 

M. de Kergant undertook, during that very night, to 
raise the obstacles which religion might oppose to such a 
hasty marriage. The dispensations were easily obtained. 
Several proscribed priests had taken refuge among Fleur- 
de-Lys’ victorious bands ; one of them held a high rank 
in the church : it was he who was to celebrate a solemn 
mass for the success of the expedition, at the very moment 
of the departure of the royalist forces ; he consented to 
bless at the same hour the union of the young general 
with Mademoiselle de Kergant. 

Bellah was informed of this arrangement as soon as 
she awoke from the heavy torpor that had succeeded 
the violent shocks of the night. She rose, said her 
prayers, and then went down into the park, where she 
took a long, solitary walk. She was surprised to feel 


BELLAS, 


379 


stronger tlian on the previous day ; nevertheless, her ideas 
were still confused and tumultuous ; when she came to 
remember the letter she had begun, a keen pang of anx- 
iety brought her back rapidly to her room. The reader 
knows what had become of this letter. Bellah, calling 
Andree at once, asked her if she had seen it: Andree 
replied resolutely that she did not know what letter she 
meant, and she affirmed it with such dryness of tone that 
Bellah dared not question her further. Mademoiselle de 
Belven, as well as the other inhabitants of the chateau, 
had heard of the wedding that was preparing. After 
what she had read, she could not doubt that Bellah was 
yielding, against her own real feelings, to some new de- 
mand of an austere duty ; she felt for her friend nothing 
but respect and pity, but to manifesther sentiments would 
be to confess her little treachery ; Andree, therefore, in 
spite of her heart, managed to keep up all day the atti- 
tude and tone of an offended sister. 

The abyss of grief has no bottom for delicate souls : 
deep as they may be into it, they can always sink deeper 
still and find new sources of bitterness. It is not true of 
them that extreme situations are the term of misery ; as 
long as they live, heart-broken though they may be, tliey 
can still suffer more. Mademoiselle de Kergant felt this 
when to all her anguish came to be added the thought 
that some one, a lackey perhaps, had violated the chaste 
outpourings of her heart, her first, her last love-letter, 
that testament of her soul, that flower of her- tomb. 
Should some more worthy hand have obtained possession 
of that letter, Bellah had reasons to fear that, her secret 
being disclosed, she could no longer be able to consummate 
her sacrifice, and she beheld herself the accomplice of 


380 


BELLAH. 


the irreparable disasters which her intended’s despair 
might bring about. She spent the early hours of the day 
in this state of anxiety ; at last, as nothing came to con- 
firm her fears, she became convinced that her letter had 
been lost in the disaster, or else that the canoness had 
secured it, and thought proper to keep it secret. 

Fleur-de-Lys appeared for a moment at the chateau 
during the forenoon ; then he returned to the camp in 
the forest, where the preparations for the departure of 
the army detained him until night. M. de Kergant was 
to accompany the expedition, leaving his daughter and 
his sister in charge of Kado, on whom he relied to watch 
over their safety. Under any other circumstances, the 
faithful game-keeper would have reluctantly accepted 
a duty that separated him from his master and kept him 
away from peril ; but all liis scruples yielded to the anx- 
iety which his daughter’s impaired health caused him. 
Alix had indeed recently lost that youthful fire and that 
proud energy which stamped her countenance with such a 
remarkable expression ; like Eellah, she seemed to have 
been touched by a deadly blight. On the very morning of 
the day which our story has now reached, she had felt 
too weak to leave lier bed ; Bellah went to see her. 

Notwithstanding the distance which the difference of 
caste marked between these two girls, the habits of their 
early years, the trials of disastrous times, exile and danger 
suffered in communion had drawn between them the ties 
of a close affection. In Bellah’s ardent soul, that sen- 
timent was intensified by the naive admiration she felt 
for Alix’s poetic beauty : she fancied that she discovered 
ill her some resemblance to the fabled queens of Armori- 
can legends. Thereupon, she had striven with anxious 


BBLLAH. 


381 


delicacy to relieve from tlie very appearance of servility 
the grave and somewhat distant nature of the young 
Hretonne. The latter, — on her part a heart more burning 
still, because it was more concentrated, — tilled with grat- 
itude, subjugated by the authority of a superior intel- 
ligence, had felt the hereditary devotion for the noble 
companion of her childhood increase to the point of fanat- 
icism. 

When she saw Mademoiselle de Kergant entering her 
room, Alix raised herself slightly on her bed ; a painful 
smile passed over her pale face. 

‘‘ Mon Dieu ! ” said Bellah, taking the unhappy girl’s 
hand, are you suffering much ? ” 

“Yes, mademoiselle, very much,” said Alix. 

“Am I perhaps the cause of it? I have not yet 
spokentomyfather in behalf of your intended. . . . For- 
give me ; I have had so many cares on my mind. . . . 
Besides, you had recommended me yourself to wait a few 
days. . . . But I am going to speak to him this very 
day, and I’ll try and obtain that Fleur-de-Genet shall not 
leave, if it is the thought of that which makes you so ill.” 

“Ho, no, thank you,” interrupted the game-keeper’s 
daughter sharply ; “ my father would never forgive him 
if he stayed. . . . Besides, that is not it ... I am ill. — 
And so you are going to be married, mademoiselle ? ” 

“Yes; to-night!” 

“ You love him? ” asked Alix after a brief pause. 

“Yes.” 

Alix’s large eyes, still further dilated by fever, flashed 
for an instant with a dull light, but softened gradually 
again as they met Bellah’s tender glance. With a sudden 
grasp, she compelled Mademoiselle de Kergant to lean 


382 


BELLAH. 


over her, and she drew her with a sort of violence over 
her half-exposed bosom ; then throwing both arms around 
her, she broke into loud sobs. 

Jkdlah made no effort to resist that impulsive manifes- 
tation of affection ; an unaccountable sympathy of youth 
and grief caused her own tears to overflow at once. 
Seated on the edge of the bed, she remained long without 
speaking, their tears mingling on their faces. Alix with 
a listless hand wiped off with the flowing locks of her long 
hair the moist cheeks of her beloved rival. 

Kado came to interrupt that mute interchange of two 
sorrows that ignored while consoling each other. Bellah 
pressed once more the hand of Alix, and went out after 
addressing a few kind words to the game-keeper. 

M. de Kergant, called aw^ay by his military duties, had 
spent the afternoon in the forest, in conference with the 
other chiefs. As the flrst shades of the night were 
spreading over the country he returned to the chateau. 
A keen satisfaction beamed upon his countenance. Every- 
thing favored Fleur-de-Lys’ plans. The spies, who kept 
up a continual telegraphy between the forest and the 
republican lines, had seen the bivouac fires kindled in 
the enemy’s camp; they had just heard the retreat 
sounded. The army of the Blues preserved its defensive 
attitude ; it was going to sleep without suspicion, leaving 
a free field to the manoeuvre projected for the night. 
The royalist forces, issuing from the forest through its 
western boundary, were going to turn the enemy on his 
right, reach Locmine, and then go down to the coast and 
there effect their junction with the regiments of emigrants 
that were to land there from the English flotilla. The 
success of this movement, which was combined with the 


BELLAS. 


883 


operations of the Yendean generals, seemed likely to be 
decisive for the King’s cause throughout the whole west of 
France. Such at least was M. de Kergant’s hope. 

Leaning against the balustrade of an open window, the 
old gentleman spoke with enthusiasm of the more happy 
future wdiich he foresaw ; the whole family together with 
a few friends and neighbors were assembled in the 
parlor: the}^ all listened in silence. Bellah, standing by 
her fatlier’s side, with her elbow resting on the window- 
railing, was gazing vaguely into the starry darkness. 
Suddenly she drew herself up, and laying her hand on 
the marquis’ arm : 

“ Hark ! ” she said. 

All approached eagerly and listened attentively. Amid 
the calm of the night, an imposing murmur was heard, 
like the distant sound of an angry sea breaking upon a 
beach. 

It was the anny of the chouans on the march. A few 
moments later, Fleur-de-Lys, followed by a small group of 
officers, rode into the court-yard at a gallop. 

In the vicinity Of Kergant the royalist bands divided 
into two columns, which continued to march on two paral- 
lel and not very distant lines : while one division followed 
a road that turned behind the park and the meadows, the 
other passed in front of the chateau. The authority of 
Fleur-de-Lys had succeeded in disciplining that dangerous 
march and in crushing for this supreme occasion the 
irregular habits of his men. The women, the children, 
and the old men, all non-combatants, had been left in the 
forest or scattered among the surrounding villages. A 
dark and compact mass marched for nearly two hours 
through the court-yard and the avenue of the chateau, 


384 : 


BELLAH. 


without disorder and without any noise save the tumult 
inseparable from the movements of a vast multitude. At 
intervals only, the window-panes rattled in their leaden 
frames, as the heavy war-chariots and the massive wheels 
of the caissons shook the pavement. From time to time, 
the men, recognizing Fleur- de-Lys in the luminous frame 
of one of the manor-windows, raised their arms and 
waved their hats in the air. These silent acclamations 
had a strange and striking character. The young general, 
with the small body of officers specially attached to his 
person, was to overtake the head of the columns immedi- 
ately after the celebration of his mari’iage. 

It was eleven o’clock at night. Mademoiselle de Ker- 
gant, who since the arrival of the young chieftain had 
disappeared from the parlor, now returned leaning on her 
father’s arm. She was dressed in white, with simple and 
severe taste, though not without that care which eveiy 
woman bestows, almost unconsciously, even on the very 
preparations for her own self-sacrifice. They proceeded 
at once into the great adjoining hall, where the family 
and the guests of the marquis were to meet for the last 
time at his table. The supper was sad. The toilets of 
the women, the brilliant illumination, the air of festivity 
which the aged canoness had striven to impart to this- 
wedding repast, nothing could overcome the impression 
of a solemn danger and the prospect of an imminent sep- 
aration. Andree, pensive and silent, shook at times with 
convulsive shudders. Bellah retained the appearance of 
her usual dignity ; but her extreme, pallor, her uncertain 
glance, the permanent furrow that broke the regular arch 
of her eyebrows, betrayed the struggle whicffi her soul was 
sustaining. Fleur-de-Lys alone appeared a stranger to 


BELLAK 


885 


the apprehensions of each, and wholly wrapped up in the 
feast, in his love, and in his triumph. His radiant brow, 
his animated speech were gradually dissipating all restraint, 
arousing hope, promising fortune, and restoring confidence 
to the discouraged spirits. Suddenly, however, a cloud 
spread over the young chieftain’s liandsome features, and 
a sentence he liad begun remained unfinished : the door 
had just opened, and Alix had come in; she was ap- 
proaching the table slowly and noiselessly. M. de Ker- 
gant ran to meet her and gently reproached her with her 
imprudence. Alix replied in a scarce audible voice that she 
felt better, and that, since she was strong enough, she 
wished to be present at her young mistress’s marriage. 
M. de Kergant, moved by this token of attachment, in- 
sisted no more, and the game-keeper’s daughter sat down 
by the side of Andree ; but the contracted features of 
the young girl, her sombre attire, her tottering step, her 
unexpected apprearance, had closed again, like a fatal 
omen, all lips and all hearts. Fleur-de-Lys himself seemed 
anxious; his language became strange and incoherent: 
seeing that they were looking at him with some surprise, 
he blushed slightly. All conversation ceased. The sup- 
per was drawfing to an end in the midst of a death-like si- 
lence, when the chapel bell struck twelve, announcing that 
the priest was at the altar, awaiting the bride and groom. 

The chapel of Kergant, a construction of the simplest 
Gothic style, stood on the left of the chateau on a narrow 
liillock raised on all sides a few feet above the level of 
the yard. This mound, which served as a base to the lit- 
tle edifice, was almost circular in shape ; on the side tow- 
ards the fields it presented a steep rocky face extending 
down to the bottom of a ravine. Oil the side of the court 
17 


386 


BELLAK 


it came down in grassy slopes, pierced here and there by 
an arris of masonry. Ten or twelve steps led up froint 
the yard to the small lawn that stretched in front of the 
porch, like a section of a village graveyard. Between 
the hillock and the moats of the castle was an open space 
communicating with the country, and through wdiich the' 
royalist band had passed. A farm-house joined the 
mound on the left. Every other side of the parallelo- 
gram forming the court-yard of the chateau was closed 
by stables, barns, and other out-houses. 

The movement and the tumult of the march had ceased ; 
some three hundred men had remained behind as a body- 
guard to the commanding general. Half of them were 
scattei’ed in small detatchments along the avenue ; the 
rest stood motionless in a half-circle around the steps that 
led to the chapel. By the mild, limpid light of a scin- 
tillating night the uniform of the King’s chasseurs could 
be recognized ; they opened their ranks before the silent 
cortege which had just issued from the chateau and gave 
the military salute. A few moments later, as the ringing 
of the sacred bell announced the beginning of the cere- 
mony, the soldiers, uncovering their heads, clasped their 
hands and knelt by the side of their guns laid on the 
ground. 

A few candles cast an uncertain light upon the interior 
of the chapel, leaving a part of the assistants in the shade. 
Eleur-de-Lys and Bellah were kneeling in front of the 
railing that enclosed the sanctuary ; the priest, an old man 
with white hair, had his hand raised to bless the nuptial 
couple ; the Marquis de Kergant with his sister, the canon- 
ess, occupied a position a few steps behind his daughter, 
kneeling on a long slab covered with armorial bearings. 


BELLAH. 


387 


Andree’s features had lost the character of childish 
grace that was familar to them, and now bore an extraor- 
dinary expression of impatience and anger. A little 
farther, Alix had remained standing, leaning on Kado’s 
arm : her eyes were fixed, her features drawn ; she looked 
as if slie were listening in expectation of some unknown 
sound. The royalist officers, together with the marquis’ 
houseliold, filled the dark nave of the little church. 

The moment had come for the irrevocable union of the 
affianced couple: the priest had asked the sacramental 
questions. Bellah lifted her brow, paler than her maiden’s 
veil, addressed to Heaven a last appeal for mercy, and 
held out her trembling hand to receive the rin^ that was 
about to bind her life forever ; but suddenly the young 
general dropped the symbolic ornament on tlie steps of 
the altar : his name had just been shouted outside in a 
lamentable tone of voice. He rose ; a similar feeling of 
terror and anxiety had become suddenly depicted upon 
every countenance. After a brief interval, the same dis- 
tant and plaintive voice repeated the name of Fleur-de- 
Lys ; then the sound of a horse’s gallop was distinctly 
heard. The young general rushed from the chapel, fol- 
lowed by all those present, and crossed rapidly the space 
betw^een the porch and the steps. A horse white with 
foam stood at the foot of the stairs ; the soldiers were as- 
sisting in alighting a horseman who seemed scarcely able 
to stand. His face and his chest were blood-stained. 
He was told that Fleur-de-Lys was before him ; he stared 
at him for a moment with frightful fixedness, murmured 
the word Betrayed ! ” and fell dead at the chieftain’s 
feet. 

At the same moment, and as if to confirm the wounded 


388 


BELLAH. 


man’s word, a dull, deep roar sounded in tlie distance. 
Fleur-de-Lys raised Ins hand to impose silence ; a few 
soldiers fell on their knees and applied their ears to the 
ground. The same noise, like the echo of an underground 
storm, was again repeatedly heard. 

“ That is the sound of cannon ! ” said Fleur-de-Lys. 
“ The array has been attacked ! Let our horses be 
brought forth at once ! ” 

While this order was being hastily executed, the priest, 
leaning over the horseman, was vainly trying to discover 
in him a lingering spark of life. The soldiers, sunk in 
gloomy stupor, surrounded this sorrowful group. The 
dwellers of tlie chateau were pressing in disorder on the 
chapel steps ; some of the women wept. At every fresh 
report brought by the night-breeze, a thrill ran through 
the crowd. 

“My boys!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Lys in a powerful 
voice, “ that is the cannon of the Blues, but it is ours also. 
. . . Oiir brethren are fighting! tliey are calling us! 
In less than half an hour we may be with them. In the 
name of God and the King, forward ! The roads are 
open. Follow ! . . . ” 

Fleur-de-Lys was interrupted by a rumor that seemed 
to spread all along the avenue ; the cries “ To arms ! 
The Blues ! ” were repeated by all the sentries, one after 
another; then the near sound of musketry suddenly 
broke forth. The young general already had one foot on 
the stirrup ; he withdrew it quickly, and drawing his 
sword : “ Follow me, boys ! ” he exclaimed, and he started 
running towards the avenue. Every one who was able 
to wield a weapon followed after him. The priest re- 
mained alone in the vast enclosure of the court-yard. 


BELLAS. 


389 


“ My daughters,” he said, returning with tottering steps 
towards the chapel, “ let us go in and pray.” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant and Alix followed the old 
man to the foot of the altar and knelt by his side ; the 
other women, unable to turn their minds to things divine 
in such a moment, remained on the lawn and under the 
vaulted porch, exchanging in a whisper a few frightened 
words. Some of the windows of the chateau were open 
and blazing with light. In the yard, the horses, left to 
themselves, wandered about here and there, neighing at 
the sound of battle and the smell of pow^der. 

Ill the meantime, the noise of the fusilade, mingled 
with confused clamors and groans, became at every 
moment more intense and more distinct. At intervals the 
loud voice of the cannon roared in the distance. Sud- 
denly, the fire seemed to slacken ; rare and isolated ex- 
plosions seemed to indicate that the fight had been inter- 
rupted ; then the noise of hurried steps was heard, and 
the entrance to the avenue was seen crowded with a band 
of chouans in disorder. Shrill cries issued from the 
group of women scattered on tlie lawn. Bellah ran to 
join them. A discharge whose light flashed through the 
foliage shook the windows of the chapel : the enemy was 
coming. 

Fleur-de-Lys’ troop, having already lost half its number, 
had scattered through the court, and were now reloading 
their guns. Bellah, noticing among them her father’s tall 
stature and white hair, pushed aside with a wild gesture 
the throng of her companions, and made her way to the 
top of the stairs ; but there she stopped short, struck by 
a fresh impresssion : the regular and serried mass of the 
republicans was debouching from the avenue ; a young 


390 


BELLAS, 


man on horseback, bareheaded and with uplifted sword, 
advanced on the flank of the column. Bj the light of 
the explosions Bellah recognized Herve. 

Surrender ! ” shouted the young officer. “ Surrender 
in the name of Heaven ! we are masters of the chateau ! ” 

As he spoke, a shower of grape-shot, pouring out of all 
the windows of the old manor, felled some twenty chou- 
ans to the earth. Those who remained standing 
seemed for a moment uncertain and hesitating. 

“Surrender!” repeated the republican commander; 
“ surrender, I tell you ; the chateau is ours ! ” 

“ To the chapel 1 ” replied Fleur-de-Lys’ vibrating voice, 
“ to the chapel 1 God and the King I God and the King ! 
Come on, boys ! ” 

Herve jumped down from his horse, and turning to- 
wards the front of his men, he gave them rapidly his or- 
ders, adding a few words to recommend to their human- 
ity the innocent creatures who had taken refuge in the 
chapel. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, major,” said a voice in a grave and 
somewdiat jeering tone. “ We know that your little jewel 
of a sister is in there ; that’s enough : we’ll put on our 
gloves.” 

“ Waste no more time firing,” said Herve. “ With the 
bayonet now, and forward ! ” 

With these words, crossing the court-yard diagonally, 
he entered the open space extending between the avenue 
and the hillock on which the chapel stood ; a platoon of 
grenadiers followed on the double-quick ; the rest of the 
troop kept advancing, but more slowly and in close ranks. 

The royalist chasseurs had already scaled the mound. 
Some were in the chapel, driving in the w^omen, wild with 


BELLAS. 


391 


terror ; they took position at every window, at every aper- 
ture, and even in the little steeple that surmounted the 
roof. Others occupied the lawn to the very edge of the 
bank. Fleur-de-Lys stood in the midst of them, between 
the porch and the stairs, his sword in one hand, a pistol 
in the other. The Marquis de Kergant and Kado, both 
their faces black with powder, stood by the chief with 
ready muskets. Fleur-de-Lys’ brief and panting voice 
broke alone at times the gloomy silence that prevailed on 
the lawn and in the chapel. The detachment commanded 
by Herve was rapidly approaching the mound ; Fleur-de- 
Lys lifted his sword. Two successive discharges, directed 
with that formidable precision which was peculiar to the 
Breton soldiers, covered the ground with republican 
bodies ; but Flerve already had a foot on the stairs. 

“Forward with me, the Mayen9ais!” he exclaimed. 
At the same moment, the grenadiers, climbing up the 
slope on all sides, swarmed on the esplanade before the 
chapel. 

To the impetuous fury of the assailants, the chouans 
opposed the energy of desperate resolution. A terrible 
mMee began : it was a hand-to-hand fight; the firing was 
paralyzed on both sides. Nothing was now heard but the 
clangor of steel striking against steel, the dull thud of 
the musket-stocks falling like clubs, and a confusion of 
smothered groans and curses. Groups clasped in mortal 
embrace rolled pell-mell down the embankment. 

. At the height of this desperate struggle, a lurid light 
was suddenly reflected in the glass windows that over- 
looked the porch. In an instant the light increased enor- 
mously, and soon illuminated the whole court-yard with 
its sinister rays. Some burning wads, falling at the foot 


392 


BELLAU. 


of the buildings opposite the chapel, had ignited sojne 
heaps of dry straw : the fire had spread inside ; large 
sparks were flying through the air amid dense clouds of 
smoke ; flaming jets already darted through the windows 
of the barns and burst through the thatched roofs. 

The fight, guided by the reverberation of the incipient 
conflagration, went on with increased violence ; the blows 
were struck with a surer and prompter hand. The dead 
and the wounded, heaped up all around the foot of the 
mound, assisted fresh republican detachments in climb- 
ing up the precipitous slope ; chouans issuing from the 
chapel came at the same time to restore the equality of 
the forces. Herve, wounded in the face, twice thrown 
back down the steps, had succeeded at last in reaching 
the centre of the lawn by cutting his way through with 
his sword ; he found himself face to face with Fleur-de- 
Lys, who stood invulnerable still, with one foot resting on 
a heap of bodies, brandishing his bloody sword. The two 
young men uttered a shout as they recognized each other, 
and their two blades met ; at the first pass, Fleur-de-Lys’ 
sword broke. At that critical moment the white figure 
of a woman appeared at one of the windows of the 
chapel, and leaned as if to jump out. 

Herve ! ’’ shouted a shrill voice which was distinctly 
heard above the roar of battle, “ Herve ! they are killing 
my father ! . . .” 

Herve’s arm remained in suspense ; his eyes turned 
suddenly away from his disarmed enemy. He saw, a 
few steps away, the Marquis de Kergant leaning against 
the wall and surrounded by a threatening circle of grena- 
diers. 


BELLAR. 


393 


“ Mes enfants ! Bruidoux ! ” exclaimed Herve, rush- 
ing towards the group, “ save the old man ! ” 

As lie spoke those words, the report of a pistol sounded 
behind him, and he fell, uttering a feeble groan. Fleur- 
de-Lys, after having performed this act of hatred rather 
than of courage, threw away his pistol and picked up a 
wounded man’s sword ; but Sergeant Bruidoux had seen 
the murder, and he had promptly levelled his gun at the 
young general : Coward ! ” he exclaimed. 

The shot went off at the same time and pierced Fleur- 
de-Lys’ breast, l^one of the particulars of this scene, 
the rapidity of which cannot be retraced in words, had 
escaped the republican soldiers who had remained in the 
court. The officer upon Avhom the command then de- 
volved raised his voice : 

Down from tlie esplanade ! ” he exclaimed, “ down, 
all of you ! ” 

The grenadiers obeyed and jumped in disorder upon 
the pavement below. A volley from the republicans 
swept off every one who was left standing on the lawn. 

“To the assault, now, and let us avenge the major!” 
shouted the officer. 

The entire ti’oop now scaled the hillock again after 
him ; but after heroic efforts, they were compelled to fall 
back by the grape-shot that was poured upon them 
through the barricaded apertures of the porch and the 
plunging fire of the windows and the steeple. The sol- 
diers, in obedience to a fresh command, scattered 
through the yard, where the heat of the fire had become 
almost insufferable ; a few knelt at the foot of the mound, 
sheltered by the height of the embankment ; others took 
up positions here and there behind pieces of furniture, 
17 * 


394 


BELLAH. 


troughs, and wagons which had been taken out of the 
burning sheds. Thus entrenched, they were able-to keep 
up the fusilade with less danger, and with a degree of 
success which was evident from the gradually slackening 
fire from the chapel. 

Suddenly a chouanoi gigantic stature came out of the 
porch and advanced alone over tlie lawn. Bruidoux, 
who was kneeling by the mound, rose at once : 

“ Comrades I ” he shouted with all his might, “ don’t 
shoot ! that’t the old game-keeper who saved my life I 
Surrender, my brave fellow, surrender ! ” 

It was indeed Kado ; he seemed not to have heard the 
sergeant’s voice ; but availing himself hastily of the brief 
respite which the astonishment of the republicans afforded 
him, he extricated two bodies from the bloody heap, — 
those of Herve and Fleur-de-Lys, — shouldered them both, 
and returned to the chapel with his double burden. 

“ Surrender ! ” repeated Bruidoux, surrender, all of 
you ! the steeple is on fire ! the chapel is burning ! ” 

ISo voice replied. The chairs and the benches that 
barricaded the entrance of the porch were thrust out- 
wards ; and the massive door of the little church was 
slammed with a loud noise. 

The frightful advice which Bruidoux had just offered 
to the game-keeper was true. Fragments escaped from 
the furnace that was consuming the barns had been 
carried by the breeze over to the parched roof of the 
farm-house contiguous to the chapel, and already tongues 
of fire were darting up towards tlie steeple. In the 
dense smoke two or three chouans looked as if suspended 
to the wood-work, and were loading their muskets. From 


BELLAH. 395 

the lower windows of the chapel, a few shots were still 
fired at intervals. 

Bruidoux went up to the ofiicer who had succeeded 
Ilerve : 

“ Captain,” he said, can nothing be done for those 
poor people ? ” 

The ofiicer, his features violently contracted, his hands 
crossed over the hilt of his sword, the point of which 
was scraping the soil, contemplated with a mournful eye 
the progress of the confiagration. 

“ What can I do ? ” he said. “ You see that they 
are firing still ; my duty forbids me to sacrifice a single 
life unnecessarily ; look at those fellows’ faces up there : 
they will never surrender ! ” 

“ I’ll go and speak to them myself,” said Bruidoux. 

Allow me only to promise them their life.” 

Promise anything you like,” said the ofiicer, turning 
his face aside, “ for it is awful ! ” 

Bruidoux returned to the mound and jumped upon the 
esplanade. Two bullets pierced his clothes ; he kept on, 
however, and reached, safe and sound, the shelter of the 
porch ; then battering the door with the butt of his 
musket : 

“We guarantee you your life, all of you!” he ex- 
claimed. “ Kado ! citizens ! ladies I we promise you 
life, liberty, anything, if you’ll come out of there ! ” 

But whether the roar of the fiames covered his voice, 
or whether the crimes which had stained that war caused 
his promises to be doubted, the honest sergeant spoke in 
vain. He persisted, however, in his mission of mercy 
until his comrades’ shouts warned him that the roof of 


S90 


BELLAH. 


the chapel was about falling in and cutting off his 
retreat. 

In the meantime, here is what was going on inside the 
chapel : The marble pavement fairly disappeared under 
the heaps of corpses ; at every moment fresh victims fell 
from the heights of the windows, or tumbled down the 
steps of the little winding staircase that led to the steeple. 
Wide fissures showed the arch of the roof, through which 
oozed a dense and black smoke ; clusters of sparks scin- 
tillated at times through the sombre canopy that waved 
around the cornices. The old priest lay lifeless at the 
foot of the altar ; the canon ess and one of the waiting- 
maids of the chateau had fallen dead at his side ; other 
women, living, but more unhappy still, groaned and 
wrung their hands in despair. Andree had fainted from 
fright, and Eellah and Alix, kneeling over her, were striv- 
ing in vain to restore her to her senses ; the two young girls 
turned at times their wild glances upon Fleur-de-Lys and 
Herve, both stretched side by side against the marble of 
the altar. 

At the foot of the sanctuary steps, the game-keeper, 
with the assistance of a young chouan^ the only one be- 
sides himself who remained unscathed, had cleared of 
dead bodies the emblazoned slab that seemed to mark 
the entrance to a family burial-vault ; by means of iron 
bars detached from the railing, they loosened a few 
marble tiles around the slab ; then raising the heavy 
block of granite on the side looking towards the altar, 
and propping it up gradually with fragments of arms or 
furniture, they succeeded in raising one of its extremities 
some two feet above the iioor ; the aperture revealed the 
first steps of a stairway disappearing, in the depths of a 


BELLAH. 


397 


vault. The two iron bars, firmly secured on the first 
step of this stairway, held up the slanting slab at its two 
angles. The young fellow who had assisted Kado in per- 
forming this task then gi-asped his gun again and re- 
turned to his post at the window. Almost immediately 
he fell back, shot through the heart. 

As soon as the outlet of the crypt had seemed avail- 
able, a group of women had besieged it with fury. 
Kado represented to them earnestly that he would be 
unable to raise the slab again if they upset it in the dis- 
order of their action, and that all means of safety would 
be. thus cut off from them; he compelled them to stoop 
one after the other, aud they disappeared in the darkness 
of the underground vault. Turning then towards the 
altar, the game-keeper lifted with one hand Andree’s 
frail and inanimate body, seized Bellah with the other, 
and dragged her towards the open trap-door. 

“Kq, no! not me! Ilerve!” murmured the girl, try- 
ing to resist the powerful grasp that was forcing her along. 

“ Don’t be alarmed mademoiselle,” replied Kado. “ I 
promise you to save him too ; but come in, come in, or I 
shan’t be responsible for anything.” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant obeyed. Kado went down 
after her, carrying Herve s sister. He came up again a 
few minutes later. A denser smoke now filled the 
chapel. 

“ Alix, my child ! ” exclaimed the game-keeper. “ Mon 
Dieu ! the light dazzles me, the smoke blinds me. 
AV'here are you ? ” 

‘‘ Here, father ! ” said Alix, “ near you.” 

“ Yes, daughter, yes. What a night, great God! Can 
you see ? . . . Where is the general ’i I must save him 


398 


BELLAS. 


first. I’ll save our young master next, if God will let 
me . . . Where is he ? Which one is Fleur-de-Lys % ” 

“ This one, father,” replied the girl. 

The game-keeper lifted up the motionless body Alix 
had pointed out to him, and walked carefully down the 
yawning crypt.- 

“ Come, Alix,” he said, “ come ! Don’t wait another 
minute ; follow me. ... You are coming, are you not ? ” 

“ Yes, father, yes,” replied Alix ; but she was not fol- 
lowing him. She had gone up to the wounded man 
who still remained at the foot of the altar, and stooping 
towards him : 

“ Fleur-de-Lys,” she said, I told you that if ever you 
betrayed me, you’d recognize me. “ Do you recognize 
me now ? ” 

A groan escaped from the wounded man’s lips. 

“ How base ! ” resumed the young girl, whose words 
were hissed between her teeth ; “ how base and how barba- 
rous ! Hy what cruel ties you held me ! Ah ! you knew 
that I must sulfer everything, anything, rather than re- 
veal to my father his own child’s shame, rather than 
break the heart of my unconscious rival ! And I did ! 
Poor Bellah ! I was tlie cause of many sorrows to her ; 
but tlie bitterest of all I kept to myself 1 I did not 
make her blush for jmur infamy. She may weep over 
you, for she does not know you ! ” 

During this speech, Fleur-de-Lys’ face had assumed 
an expression of undefinable pain ; he seemed to collect 
painfully his fast failing strength. His lips opened 
slightly : 

“ Listen ! ” he murmured, “ listen : I have never loved 
any one but you. . . . Pride, ambition blinded me 


BELLAE. 


399 


. . . biifc before God, I never loved any one but you. . . . 
Take my band, Alix: you are my wife ! . . .” 

^•Wretch that lam!” exclaimed the girl, “ he is de- 
ceiving me still ; but I love him and I shall save him!” 

At the same time throwing her arms around him, she 
dragged him towards the uplifted slab. Standing by the 
vault, her father was gazing at her with a terrible expres- 
sion. Alix stepped back, her knees gave way, and her 
burden fell at her feet. 

‘‘Father!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in an- 
guish, “ let me die, but save him ! ” 

“ FTeither you nor him,” said the game-keeper in a 
hoarse voice ; “ treason never entered there ! ” 

He turned around as he uttered these words, and with 
one kick upset the two iron bars that held up the slab : 
the sepulchral stone fell back heavily. 

“ Let us pray- now,” resumed the old man in a solemn 
accent. “ Pray, Monsieur le Due, if you hear me. Pray 
for him, you, if you love him.” 

Alix replied with a heart-rending cry. It was the last. 
Torrents of flame now burst into tlie chapel ; a horrible 
creaking sound was heard ; long gerbs of sparks shot from 
tlie wood-work, which was giving way in all directions, 
and the roof Anally fell in with a crash, burying the liv- 
ing and the dead beneath its blazing wreck. 

An hour had sufiiced to encompass so many disasters. 
When the pale light of dawn came to mingle with the 
expiring gleam of the Are, it found, within the entire en- 
closure of the smoking ruins, nothing but a solitude scat- 
tered with human remains. 


400 


BELLAS, 


XL 

“ And I heard locking np the under door 
Of the horrible tower ; whereat, without a word, 

I gazed into the faces of my sons.” — D ante. 

The crypt that now sheltered all that was left of the 
family and household of Kergant extended in a circular 
form in the body of the little hillock under a vaulted 
ceiling, sustained by a course of masonry on one side, and 
on the other by the rock itself. Here and there, on the 
damp soil, a tombstone stood out in relief. A few narrow 
fissures in the rock were barely sufficient to renew the 
dense atmosphere of the crypt. When the granite slab that 
closed the solitary outlet from this underground shelter 
had fallen back under Kado’s foot, not even the feeblest 
ray of light came to disturb the habitual darkness of that 
inauspicious spot. At the same time, the dull crash that 
shook the vault warned the unfortunate captives that the 
secret of their retreat no longer belonged to any living 
being : that their tomb had closed over their heads. 

Mademoiselle de Kergant alone had retained sufficient 
freedom of mind to feel the horror of this last blow. The 
other women, dumb and as if struck with idiocy, were sob- 
bing in a corner. At the sound of the fall of the chapel’s 
roof, Bellah had run up the steps and with a desperate 
effort had attempted to lift up the slab ; but the united 
strength of several powerful men would have been inade- 
quate to perform this task. Bellah returned slowly, press- 


BELLAH. 


401 


ing her burning forehead in her two hands. She groped 
her way back to the place where she had left Andree 
stretched on the ground with her head slightly raised 
against the wall. 

‘‘ May God,” she said, kneeling by the side of the young 
girl, may God spare you the waking, poor, innocent 
child ! ” 

As she spoke, a groan escaped from the lips of the 
wounded man who lay by the side of Andree and whom 
Bellah had heard Kado designate under the name of 
Fleur-de-Lys. 

“Are you suffering much, sir?” she said, stooping 
towards him she supposed to be the young general. 

“ Bellah ! is that you ? ” murmured the wounded man. 

Mademoiselle de Kergant uttered a deep and heart- 
rending cry : “ Herve ! ” she said, “ my own Ilerve ! ” 
And she passed her hand rapidly over the breast and 
blood-stained face of the young officer, but with such 
tender precaution that it felt to Herve like the fluttering 
of a bird’s wings. 

After a few minutes devoted to a silent and fervent 
prayer, and also to a secret feeling of shame at having 
forgotten for a moment her fathers death, Bellah resumed 
in a less excited tone : 

“ So that is you, Herve ! you ! Here we are, united at 
last, but at what a moment and in what a spot ! God of 
mercy ! you don’t know . . . ! ” 

“ I do know,” interrupted Herve. “ I was suffering, 
but I did not lose consciousness. I know where we 
are. . . . Only I dare not ask you . . . my sister, my 
little Andree ? ” 


402 


BELLAE. 


She is here, safe and sound ; but she fainted and has 
not yet recovered : there she is, lying beside you.” 

“ Alas ! must we thank God? Would it not be better 
for her. . . . Tell me, Bellah . . . you are brave your- 
self . . . the slab has been closed again ? Every one must 
be dead up j^onder ? ” 

“Unless through a miracle, every one is dead,” said 
Bellah. 

“ And so no one knows that we are here ? ” 

“ 'No one, I believe.” 

“ In the name of Heaven, dear Bellah ! let Andree re- 
main in ignorance of this until . . . until the end.” 

“ Silence, Herve, silence ! She is coming-to ; she may 
hear you.” 

Andree was indeed gmdually recovering her senses; 
she stretched her arms and turned over on her chilly 
couch like a child awakening in its cradle. Mademoi- 
selle de Kergant, leaning over her, called her in a caress- 
ing voice. The poor child murmured at first a few in- 
coherent words, and asked if it would not soon be day- 
light ; then, the sentiment of the terrible reality removing 
by degrees the clouds from her mind : 

“ Where am I ? mon Dieu ! ” she exclaimed. 

Bellah, covering her with kisses, replied that they were 
in a place of safety, and made her take Herve’s hand. 
She informed her then of what it was impossible to con- 
ceal from her, their irreparable losses and all the circum- 
stances which had compelled them to seek a refuge in the 
underground vault ; but she added that Kado had suc- 
ceeded in escaping with two or three of the male servants 
of the chateau, and that he would return to extricate 
them from their prison as soon as there would be no fur- 


BELLAH. 


403 


ther danger of falling into the hands of the republi- 
cans. 

These assurances joined to the presence of a brother 
she had despaired of ever seeing again quieted Andree’s 
apprehensions ; and a few rays of daylight that were now 
penetrating through the cracks in the wall and the inter- 
stices of the rock helped to restore entire calm to her 
mind. The two girls, uniting their efforts, . assisted 
Herve in assuming the position which on account of his 
wound was least painful to him. Tleur-de-Lys’ bullet 
had shattered his shoulder, and every motion drew from 
him feeble and unconscious moans. But he strove at 
once to belie by his calm and almost cheerful language 
the involuntary surprises of physical pain, Andree, recip- 
rocating these well-meant falsehoods, tried to amuse him 
with her smiling and ingenuous chatter which she inter- 
mingled with furtive tears. 

Bell ah left them from time to time, and went up to the 
peasant-women, who were crouching against the wall, 
lamenting at intervals, then again relapsing into silent 
apathy. Besistance to the great trials of misfortune is 
not measured by the strength of the body, but by the 
power of the soul. Bellah, whose delicate frame had 
been further weakened by the protracted sufferings of 
the past few weeks, had suddenly found fresh life in the 
extreme misery under which her companions with more 
robust limbs but less stout hearts utterly gave way. 
Mademoiselle de Kergant, addressing in turn each of 
these unhappy creatures, calling them by name, pressing 
their hands, speaking to them of their faith they were 
forgetting, of God, who did not forget them, succeeded 
in inspiring them with a certain amount of resignation. 


404 


BELLAS. 


Several times in the course of every hour, the noble girl 
returned to this afflicted group ; they kissed her hands 
and bathed them with tears ; they clung to the skirts of 
lier dress, beseeching her not to forsake them. They 
seemed to look upon her as the Angel of Charity. 

Herve seemed more calm. Tie had lost much blood, 
and the throbs of fever had thus been somewhat allayed. 
Andree, happy to see him suffer less, and full of confi- 
dence in the prospects that had been held out to her, was 
gradually recovering the gracious vivacity of her disposi- 
tion. She formed projects ; she spoke of the future, 
never suspecting that the whole future of her youth was 
confined within the narrow limits of this funereal vault. 
She irritated by her innocent reveries the secret anguish 
which she sought to appease. Mademoiselle de Kergant, 
trying to moderate hopes which were destined to be so 
cruelly disappointed, reminded her gently of all the blood 
and all the mourning that was upon them. 

Bellah,” interrupted Herve, you must forgive me 
the share I have had in all the blows that have stricken 
you. I expect forgiveness of your kindness — of your 
sense of justice.” 

“ How could I find fault with you, Herve,” replied the 
girl, “ in presence of that wound you received while try- 
ing to save my father ? ” 

‘‘ Tell him you love him still ; that’ll be much better,” 
said Mademoiselle de Pelven. 

“ For mercy’s sake, dear Andree ! ” rejoined Bellah. 

“ "What harm would that be % ” Andree w^ent on, with 
an emotion not unmixed with her usual childish tliousrht- 
lessness. “Our misfortunes are terrible, I know, and I 
feel as you do ; but why refuse to acknowledge the con- 


BELLAH. 


405 


solation which God has left to us orphans? His hand 
has directed everything, and I bless it while weeping 
over those it has stricken down. God has not permitted 
tliat you should become the prey of that bad man— that 
wretched Fleur-de-Lys . . . for you were sacrificing your- 
self ; Ilerve must know' it full well. Besides, you have 
no speeches to make now, and this is the reason why : 
you know your letter — your famous letter ? A¥ell, it was 
I took it, and I sent it to him — to Ilerve ! and I dare say 
he knows it by heart now.” 

Mademoiselle de Kergant was at first quite astounded 
at this revelation ; then she stammered a few words of 
reproach. But the hesitating hand of the wounded man 
having suddenly met hers, Bellah hushed ; she bowed 
her head as if in shame ; the exhausted spring of her 
tears opened again and bathed Pelven’s face. Andree 
moved a few steps away, leaving them to that effusion 
the happiness of which was disturbed by more bitterness 
than she could suppose. 

As Andree was mechanically trying to widen one of 
the cracks in the wall, she felt a stone trembling under 
her fingers, and she succeeded in loosening it almost with- 
out an effort. A brighter light pervaded the crypt. 
Andree called to her sister with an exclamation of joy. 
The fallen stone had left in the wall, at its junction with 
the arch of the roof, an aperture large enough to admit 
the fist. The space went on growing narrower, through 
the thickness of the masonry, in a vertical and irregular 
fissure, which extended to the outside ; according to all 
appearances, this rent must have opened outwardly in 
one of the fragments of wall that showed in some spots 
through the grassy slopes of the hillock. Bellah tried to 


406 


BELLAS. 


widen the opening, but in vain. The only advantage the 
captives could derive from this discovery was to breathe a 
less stifling atmosphere, and to distinguish, through a 
loophole about two fingers wide and three feet deep, a 
small strip of the pavement of the yard and a green belt 
cut out on the grass under the shade of the first trees of 
the avenue. This faint vision of the outer world, of lib- 
erty, and of sunshine, caused a poignant impression to 
Mademoiselle de Kergant. Andree, on the contrary, 
was confirmed by this perspective, limited tlmugli it was, 
in her hopes of early deliverance, and believed it already 
half realized. She returned from time to time to feast 
her eye upon the narrow view revealed tlirough the fis- 
sure, watching with excited impatience the advent of a 
liberator. 

Bellah, availing herself of a moment when Andree was 
absorbed in this idle contemplation, asked Herve, in a 
whisper, whether he thought their cries could be heard 
through that aperture, the foi-m and dimensions of which 
she had described to him. Herve replied that he did not 
think it were possible, owing to the thickness of the 
masonry and the irregularities of the fissure, that would 
break up the voice and smother it. 

At any rate,” he added, “ the sounds that would 
reach the outside would be too uncertain to attract the 
attention of an indifferent person, and if any one came 
to look for a relative or a friend, he would surely search 
among the wreck of the chapel ; in that event we would 
liear the sound of his steps over the vault, and it would 
be time enough to try this last resource. Until then, these 
screams could only intensify the horror of this sojourn, 
and Andree and the others could no longer be deceived. 


BELLAH, 


m 


“ O Bell ah ! with what joy I would give all the 
blood I have left to spare you and all the rest of those 
here the terrible moments I foresee ! ” 

“ But, I have been thinking, Herve . . . nothing is 
lost yet. . . . They may come, — they certainly will come 
to bury the dead. . . 

Here Bellah’s voice expired on her trembling lips. 

Herve replied after a pause ; 

“ Bellah, it is impossible to deceive you ; you do not, 
you cannot expect it. They will doubtless come, but in 
two days or later, perhaps. Terror prevails throughout the 
country. I liave often seen the theatres of massacres like 
this abandoned for some time . . . and then, when they 
do come, will they know the secret of this crypt? Will 
you then have strength enough to utter a cry ? . . . and 
will that cry be heard ? That is doubtful, improbable.” 

So,” said Bellah, “ must we then wholly despair, tell 
me, Herve ! Speak without fear : you know me well.” 

“ We have,” replied Herve, one hope, and one hope 
only : that’s Francis. His duty attached him to the gen- 
eral’s person. If ho has. survived the battle that was 
fought last night, I have no doubt that he ... I don’t 
know what he may do ; but it seems to me that I would 
save him if he were here and I were in his place. . . . 
Poor Francis ! ” 

Long hours elapsed thus. Already the day was end- 
ing, and the crypt was gradually again being wrapped in 
its limubrious obscuritv. Andree had returned to sit at 

O 

her brother’s side. She began to suspect that she had 
been deceived, and she spoke no more; drops of perspi- 
ration trickled down her forehead. When the last gleams 
of light had disappeared, she was no longer able to with- 


408 


BELLAH. 


hold the expression of her anguish ; she uttered words of 
despair mingled with heart-rending sobs. Eellah held her 
long clasped against her heart without succeeding in quiet- 
ing her. Ilerve, who had again been seized with violent 
fever at the beginning of the night, could scarcely man- 
age to remain in possession of his own reason. 

In another part of the vault, the four servants offered 
a more pitiable sight still. Night had destroyed the faint 
ray of hope that sustained them, and the first pangs of 
hunger giving them at the same time a fearful foretaste 
of the morrow that awaited them, they started suddenly 
from their torpor with the furious energy of revolted in- 
stincts : they went about the crypt as if insane, striking 
their heads against the walls and uttering wild clamors. 
There was something brutal and odious in these trans- 
ports that terrified Andree’s mind ; she ceased to groan, 
and soon fell into a state of prostration as deep as the 
sleep of childhood or of death. The women, yielding to 
the pious consolation which their young mistress did not 
cease to lavish upon them, and giving -way also to ex- 
hausted nature, sank back gradually into silence and ap- 
- parent insensibility. 

We will pass rapidly over the hours that followed. 
Mademoiselle de Kergant had dropped upon her knees 
and was praying. Ilcrve had been unable to resist any 
longer the burning fear that consumed him ; strange and 
incoherent words crowded at times upon his lips ; his 
parched hands sought the damp coolness of the rock. 
Bellah made no effort to rouse him from this delirium, 
which, at least, was forgetfulness. Towards morning she 
gave way in spite of herself to the heavy sleep that 


BELIjA.S, 409 

weighed upon her eyelids, and to the feeling of weakness 
that began to confuse lier brain. 

She was awakened by Ilerve’s voice, which was calling 
her persistently : 

“ Bellah ! Bellah ! ” he was saying, listen ! I hear 
steps ! there are people in the chapel ! ” 

Bellah tliought at first that the wounded man was the 
dupe of some feverish fancy ; but on listening attentively, 
she heard distinctly the sound of footsteps over her head. 
She rose at once. Bays of daylight again penetrated into 
the crypt. She looked for the stairway, walked rapidly 
up the steps, and struck several blows in quick succession 
with the fiat of her hand against the slab that closed the 
entrance. 

No, no ! not there ! ” said Herve ! “ It is impossible 

for them to hear that. Go to the opening in the wall, 
dear Bellah . . . and call, call with all your might ! ” 

Bellah hurried down the steps again, and applying her 
lips to the sort of loophole which chance had made them 
discover the day before, she uttered several sharp screams ; 
then she stopped, holding her breath to listen. 

‘‘Mon Dieu ! she murmured after a few minutes, 
“ I hear nothing more, Herve ! They have left the 
chapel ! ” 

Herve made no reply. 

“ If we could all shout at once,” Bellah went on, “ per- 
haps ...” 

And while speaking, she ran to her companions in mis- 
ery and tried to rouse them from their stupor, begging 
them to join their voices to her own. Andree alone seemed 
to understand what was going on ; she rose to her knees, 
but fell back at once senseless. Bellah, shaking her head 
18 


410 


BELLAH, 


despairingly, returned to the aperture and looked through 
again. 

“ I see them ! ” she exclaimed, “ I see them ! ” 

“ See whom ? Do you know them ? ” said Herve. 

“ Yes . . . there is the young officer ! ” 

Francis ? ” 

And the old sergeant . . . and two others . . . .they 
are going away, but slowly and regretfully, as it were.” 

“ One more effort, Bellah, if you can, in the name of 
Heaven.” 

Bellah began screaming again at brief intervals. 

Well ! well ! are they coming back ? ” asked Herve in 
a choking tone. 

“ Ho, no ! Mon Dieu ! Thou art cruel ! . . . They are 
already beyond that part of the yard which I can see . . . 
but here they are again . . . they are in sight . . . 
at the entrance of the avenue ! . . . They are going, they 
are going ! O Lord4 O Lord ! make them hear me ! 
Francis, help ! O Francis, Francis ! ” 

Bellah had exhausted in this last appeal all the strength 
she had left. Herve questioned her again ; she replied in 
a voice as faint as a breath : 

They have stopped ; they are looking around ... I 
believe, yes, ... I believe that they have heard. . . . 
They seem to be holding a consultation. . . . Ah ! woe 
to us ! they are going ! they are gone ! . . .” 

These last words seemed to tear Bellah’s heart ; she 
staggered, then sank to the earth in the folds of her white 
dress. 

Herve was taken with a fresh attack of delirium, which 
lucid flashes only made more painful : a strange phantas- 
magoria evoked before his eyes smiling images which the 


BELLAB. 


411 


frightful sentiment of the reality drove off at once. He 
imagined that he again heard footsteps over the vault, 
and something like the dull sound of a protracted labor ; 
then these noises became lost among the nameless mur- 
murs that filled his ears. Suddenly, — he fancied he must 
be dreaming still, — a flood of bright sunshine penetrated 
into the crypt : the outlines of human figures stood forth 
in the luminous frame of the absent slab. 

“ Pelven ! ” shouted from above a young and excited 
voice. 

“ Francis ! Here, Francis ! Help ! help ! ” replied 
Herve. 


The old manor had been preserved by the strength of 
its walls from the effects of the fire. One hour after the 
scene we have just related, Major Herve was lying on the 
wide antique bed where he had slept the sweet sleep of 
his early youth. In the embrasure of a window, an old 
surgeon in uniform was putting in order the alarming 
arsenal of his profession. A personage of an aspect at 
once grave and burlesque, whose striped breeches were 
shielded by a white linen apron, was raising with one 
hand the wounded man’s head, and with the other hold- 
ing up a cup of broth to his lips. 

“ On that subject, major,” this singular nurse was ol)- 
serving, “ I dare say that you must have experienced the 
devil of a moral effect in that catacomb.” 

“ Yes, my old Bruidoux, the night was a pretty rough 
one. How is my sister ? ” 

You can see her picking up with the naked eye, 
major. Every one generally in the old shanty seems to 


412 


BELLAH. 


be recovering a taste for bread. There is only that poor 
little fellow, Kado’s son, who continues to break m j heart. 
Thereupon, major, an idea has occurred to me. I have a 
notion to adopt the child : he deserves it ; for, firstly, he 
is an orphan ; secondly, he saved my life in the forest ; 
thirdly, he has just saved yours. For, if we had not met 
him in the avenue, and if he had not brought us plump 
onto the cellar-hatch, we were off for good and true, there 
is no mistake about it. I intend, therefore, to be a father 
to him ; Colibri, on the other hand, offers to be his 
mother, and he is well fitted for the duty, owing to the 
extreme meekness of his disposition. . . 

Francis came in at this moment. 

“ Major,” he said, “ Mademoiselle Bellali has quite re- 
covered since I told her that the doctor warranted your 
own recovery.” 

I warrant nothing,” interrupted the old surgeon 
bluffly, “ if you don’t leave me in peace for a while ! By 
the right about face ! . . . enough talking ! ” 

The sergeant and Francis left the room on tiptoe, and 
Herve was soon sound asleep. 


THE END. 


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A New Edition. | 

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public denxind Without exception, they each have some 

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Th<» publication of this beautiful new edition was commenced in 
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